


Ten Prophets

by 8611



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Drug Use, Everyone is fabulously dressed, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Week, London, M/M, New York City, and everyone is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“From what I’ve seen, the collection looks awesome,” Sam says. “You guys’ll kill it, you always do.” </p><p>“Here’s to hoping,” Dean says, raising the slice of pizza he’s holding. </p><p>“Nah,” Sam says, smiling softly. “Here’s to <i>knowing</i>.” </p><p>(Or, the one where Dean's a designer, Sam's a model, and Cas owns a lot of <i>really</i> nice suits.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prophets I

**Author's Note:**

> A quick timeline note: I was running into problems tracking down things like fashion week schedules from 8 years ago, so, while Sam and Dean are about 22 and 26, this is set in 2013, not 2006. (On a similar note: Jo’s way too young to be one half of the creative heads of a major brand. Pretend she’s a lot closer to Dean’s age than she is in canon.)
> 
> In terms of aesthetics: Ten Prophets is basically Proenza Schouler. Belo (purposely missing the second ‘l’) is Preen with the serial numbers filed off (the line’s full name is Belo by Talbot Harvelle, natch). Theos Milton is any of the giant Italian houses (it’s the closest-ish to Dolce & Gabbana). Because it’s relevant to a scene in a later chapter: Ten Prophets actually references Sam and Dean. Dean comes from the world _decanus_ , meaning ‘chief of ten’, and Sam - Samuel - the prophet of the same name. 
> 
> Some other stuff: Sam and Dean dress kinda like AllSaints meets Rag & Bone. Dean’s got a kinda Balmain twist on top of that, Sam’s got a bit of a Michael Bastian and/or Band of Outsiders flavor. As well, all of [Dean’s jewelry](http://i.imgur.com/himHjNS.png) has been changed (although the pendant is still from Sam). 
> 
> For Cas, think Dunhill, Tom Ford, Zegna, all that shit, etc. If it looks like it came from the Suits costume department and/or is something that the Sartorialist would take a photo of, Cas would wear it. 
> 
> Updates will be posted on Wednesdays.

It’s raining the day Sam tells him that he’s leaving. Dean gets the text sometime mid-afternoon, at a time when he doesn’t have time for this shit. They’re two weeks and a few days out from go time, and Dean’s not really in a position to leave the studio. It was only because Sam’s texts had gotten progressively more sad and pathetic that he’d actually left. 

They meet at a coffee shop a few blocks away from the studio. Sam looks like a drowned puppy, his hair stringy and curling around his temples and over his eyebrows. 

“We should sit down,” Sam says, gesturing at the one empty table in the place. It’s a tiny thing, packed into the corner, and Dean is pretty sure they’re not both going to fit around it. It’s hipster-sized. 

“Spit it out. I’ve got to get back to work,” Dean says. He waves a cup lid in Sam’s face before putting it on his coffee. Sam just rolls his eyes and snags Dean’s coffee before heading for the corner table. “Hey -- bitch!”

“Deal with it, jerk,” Sam says as he drops down into one of the tiny chairs. Dean glares, and he carefully squeezes himself between the wall and the table, kicking his feet out and taking up as much space as he can in the process. Sam does the same, their feet tangling. 

“What’s so earth shatteringly important?” Dean asks, once he’s reclaimed his coffee and made Sam wait the time it takes him to inhale half of it.

“I’m… planning on traveling for a bit,” Sam says. “There’s this really amazing photographer who wants to do a project with me.” 

“What are we talking here, couple of weeks, a month?”

“Uh, longer. Like four months. Ish.” Sam’s ducking his head, looking at Dean from under his bangs. Dean swallows hard, the scowl on his face almost a default facade. 

“What the hell kind of photo project takes four months?”

“This one.”

“Who’s the photographer?”

“Jess More. She did that thing with--”

“Karlie last year, I know who she is. Everyone knows who she is. Great, so she’s dragging you on an extended vacation-cum-social experiment for the sake of her new book, I’m guessing?”

“... you’re not wrong.”

Dean sighs and curls his shoulders inwards, staring down at his coffee cup. It’s a cheery sky-blue, the exact opposite of the current storm-grey of the sky outside, and he flicks at it with his thumb, frowning. He doesn’t like the sound of any of this at all. 

“When are you leaving?” 

“In three weeks.” 

Dean’s head snaps back up, only to find that Sam’s looking away from him and out the window, chin resting in his palm. He’s going for nonchalance, but Dean knows _way_ better. 

“You cannot be serious,” Dean says. “You’re just fucking off to Outer Mongolia with some photog and missing 75% of the season?”

“Don’t give me that,” Sam says, his eyebrows bunching together as he finally chances a glance back at Dean. “It’s womenswear, I’m not working.” 

“Uh, yeah you are. With _us_. You know, your family?”

“Dean, that’s a load of shit and you know it. You guys are showing in what, two weeks and change? And then the only ‘work’ we have to do is look pretty for the front row.” 

Dean’s teeth are clamped together hard enough that his jaw is starting to hurt. Sam just stares him down. 

“Dude, you shouldn’t be out there alone,” Dean finally says, taking another sip of coffee to try to calm himself down. Four months isn’t the end of the world, right?

(Wrong).

“Why not? I travel all the time for work.”

“Yeah, to nice, large cities that are safe. She’s probably going to take you off roading in like Asia Minor or Antarctica.” 

“One day you’re going to realize that big cities are _less_ safe than the suburbs.”

“I didn’t say anything about the suburbs -- which, by the way, are pure _evil_ \-- I’m talking about… strange rural hellscapes.”

“You think New Jersey is a hellscape.”

“It is. Can’t this wait until after Paris wraps up?” 

“Jess wants to leave in three weeks, and I’m down,” he says, shrugging. Dean frowns. 

“There’s something else going on,” Dean says. “Wait, are you sleeping with her?”

“What?!” Sam’s eyes go comically large as he turns a rather interesting shade of red. “No! God, Dean, we’re not all you. I don’t sleep with every woman who talks to me.”

“You do not have anything approaching enough game for that,” Dean says, smirking. “But you totally are, aren’t you?”

“I’m _not_.” Sam glares, stealing Dean’s coffee in retaliation. Dean just kicks at his knee, making Sam choke. He sputters and coughs before managing to kick out, “You’re such an ass!” 

“Takes one to know one,” Dean says. “I’m proud of you, Sammy! You’re all grown up and seducing photographers like a real model.” 

“I swear to god I’m not,” Sam says, voice rough and eyes watering. “I hate you so much.”

“Love you too,” Dean says with a blinding grin. 

\---

Dean works until he knows he’s pushed himself too far, his hands shaking and his vision going fuzzy around the edges. Sleep hasn’t been high on his priority list, lately. 

“Go home,” John says when he finds Dean downing another cup of instant coffee around midnight. There’s something rough and unforgiving in his face at the sight of Dean jittering out of his skin. “And don’t call me if you have a heart attack.”

“Just caffeine, I promise,” Dean says, holding up his hands. John still doesn’t look particularly convinced. 

“You’re running yourself raw. Get out of here.”

“Going, going, hold your horses.”

“And I’m calling you a car.”

“ _Dad_ , jesus, I’m fine. I can get home fine on my own two feet.” 

John narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t push it anymore, instead leaving Dean in the hall. Dean slumps against the wall, staring up at the exposed ceiling. He notes distantly that one of the lights is out before pushing himself back up and rolling his neck out, making it crack. 

There’s a car waiting for him when he gets downstairs. Ignoring it, he jams his hands in his pockets and starts walking towards 8th, shoulders hunched against the cold. The car ends up trailing him all the way down the block, and Dean looks over when the driver rolls down the window. 

“Your dad said to not let you get away.” It’s Bobby. “Don’t make me taze you, kid.”

“You’re all a bunch of overbearing fuck-ups,” Dean grouses. He does get in the car, though. “So what, you’re my dad’s errand boy now?”

“Nope,” Bobby says. “But I heard you needed a ride. You seem a bit more sour than usual.”

“Oh, don’t you start, too. No, I’m not high; yes, I’ve had more than five cups of coffee today, and yes, I promise to attempt to get eight hours of sleep and eat a balanced breakfast in the morning.”

“Whoa, hold up, princess. I was actually talking about the scowl, not the bloodshot eyes.”

Dean pulls down the sun visior, blinking at the tiny mirror. He’s got smudges of bruised color under his incredibly red eyes. He grimaces, slamming the visor back out of his way. 

“Mary’s gonna read me the riot act,” Dean mutters. 

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing again, are you?” Bobby asks, raising an eyebrow. “And does that mean I’m not taking you home?”

“I have to go talk to her about something,” Dean says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And _no_ , fuck off. Mr. and Mrs. Straight Edge can chew me out about this, but you don’t get to throw stones at glass houses.” 

“Just making sure I won’t have to peel you out of a gutter any time soon.”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, turning away to look out the window. “I’m not a junkie. Worry about Sam, he’s the one fucking off to parts unknown with his pretty little smack habit.” 

“Ah, so Sam finally told you he was leaving.”

“What do you mean _finally_?” Dean looks over at Bobby, narrowing his eyes. It’s dark enough that he can only get snippets of Bobby’s expression as they pass under the streetlights, and he can’t really read him.

“He agreed to work with Moore last week, he just couldn’t figure out how and when to tell you.”

“ _What_? Why?”

“Because he knew you’d freak out. Which, well, see exhibit A: yourself.” 

“He’s such a little bitch,” Dean mutters, crossing his arms and slumping in his seat. 

“Glass houses,” Bobby says. When Dean looks over at him he’s grinning. 

“I’m just worried about him,” Dean says after a beat. “Why the hell should I trust this Jess chick with him?”

“Sam can take care of himself. He’s a good kid.”

“I know that. Doesn’t mean I don’t get to worry.”

They’re silent for long rolling blocks, the traffic quiet at the odd hour. Dean presses his forehead to the window and closes his eyes, breathing deep. He can still feel jittering shockwaves through his whole body, his limbs screaming to move, heat racing. If he’s going to talk with Mary, he needs to chill the fuck out. 

“Is Sam really having problems?” Bobby asks, almost too quiet to be heard. Dean opens his eyes and rolls his head to the side, so that he can see Bobby out of the corner of his eye.

“No. That was a low blow,” Dean says. “Sam’s clean. That was once. He’s not even drinking right now, he’s on some clense.” 

“That’s commitment,” Bobby mutters. 

“Insanity is the word you’re looking for,” Dean says. 

“Bit of that, too,” Bobby says. “He’ll be fine, Dean, you know that.”

“I do,” Dean says. He chews at his bottom lip and watches a couple of cop cars go flying past in the opposite direction, their oscillating lights scattered across the street. 

“Still want me to take you to your parents’ place?” Bobby asks. Dean drums his fingers on his thigh and nods, a quick little movement. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

\---

The house is mostly dark when Dean gets in, yelling back to Bobby that he’d call if he wanted a ride home. He’s pretty sure Bobby doesn’t sleep, or if he does, it’s during the day. Once upon a time Bobby was part of that whole 70s thing, scribbling notes in worn out journals at bars while he talked with pretty boys and slick girls who would become the bedrock of the fashion world. He’s got whole pages filled with stories, things he’s put into his articles and books over the years, memories spun in smoky bars and pulsing clubs. It’s held onto him, something that leched into his soul, and Dean can’t remember ever seeing him asleep at night. He’s always on the move, always looking to recapture nights spent covered in glitter and cigarette smoke with people like Carolina and Grace and Bianca. 

“Mom?” He calls, leaving his bag and jacket in a pile at the bottom of the steps. He winds his way up to the third floor, where there’s light spilling from under the door at the far end of the hallway. When he knocks he gets a soft ‘ _come in_.’

Mary’s sitting at her desk, back to Dean. One of her computer monitors is a whirlwind of emails and calendars, but the other is a simple Photoshop window with one image open. She’s leaning back, arms crossed, staring at the photo. The warm light from her desk lamp catches her blonde hair while the cool glow from the computer throws the lines of her neck and shoulders into sharp relief. 

“That’s a throwback,” Dean says. When Mary turns, he nods at the computer. It’s a photo of him and Sam, standing on a foggy beach. Dean doesn’t remember exactly when or where it was taken, but he thinks it might have been in Los Angeles, in that awkward time between middle and high school. Sam’s got an absolute mop of hair happening and Dean’s wearing a disturbingly large amount of denim. 

“I thought you were John,” Mary says. “Everything ok, honey?”

“Not really,” Dean says with a shrug. He’s never been good at lying to Mary, and she’s always been good at seeing through his bullshit, so he doesn’t even try anymore.

“You look like hell,” she says, grinning. 

Dean rolls his eyes, although he’s smiling as well, and comes to sit on the low coffee table in the room. He crosses his legs and tucks his hands under his feet, keeping his shoulders hunched. 

“You didn’t tell me Sam was leaving,” he says. 

“He made us all swear to secrecy. I wouldn’t have said anything anyway, you two do things on your own time, your own way. I wasn’t going to push it.”

“And you’re ok with this?”

“Of course. He’s an adult and he’s being smart about his career.”

Dean presses his lips together, frowning at the screen behind Mary’s head. They’ve never been good at having normal family vacation snapshots, and this one is no exception. It’s black and white, the grain thick in the fog which means Mary must have shot it with faster film than she usually uses. Around the edges the detail fractures and splits, and Dean remembers her taking it with an old box camera she’d bought at one of the Housing Works shops. 

He’s got an arm around Sam, and Sam is looking up at him, still a bit shorter. Dean’s freckles are even more riotous than usual, like he’d been spending time in the sun. 

“Do you ever wonder what our vacation photos would look like if we were normal?” Dean asks. “Like, everyone smiling and wearing ‘I heart NYC’ shirts with bad framing.” 

“Then they wouldn’t be ours,” Mary says simply. “This Sam thing is really bugging you.”

“He’s fucking -- sorry -- off right in the middle of London, of course it’s bugging me.” 

“He talked to your dad about it before hand, it’s alright.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Dean says, snorting out a half-laugh. “I just… don’t do fashion week without Sam. He’s always there.” 

“Let him do this, Dean. It’ll be good for both of you,” 

Dean sighs and drops his feet to the floor. When he looks back up Mary is watching him with that unnerving stare of hers, a sharp gaze that he knows is honed from a lifetime of watching the world through a camera. 

“You should really get some sleep,” Mary says. “You’re welcome to stay here.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

He sits on the table staring at the computer long enough that Mary gets up, dropping a kiss on the top of his head as she walks out of the room. He stares at the photo of Sam and him for a long time. 

He slips into the desk chair, bringing up Bridge to click through the other photos in the folder. They’re all from that same trip, always of the two of them. John seldom appears in family photos, Mary even more rarely. It’s always Sam and Dean. Always has been, always will be. 

One of the photos is of Sam kicking a spray of sand at Dean. It’s sunny in this one, but late in the day, and Mary had taken the photo at the exact moment that Dean’s face has broken open in soft surprise, eyes wide as the wave of sand comes his way, his hands starting to rise to cover his face. Sam’s smile is blinding, and Dean can almost hear him laughing. 

Dean grins at the image, leaning forward so that his nose is close to the screen and he can see where the photo breaks down into individual pixels. 

“You are such a fucker,” Dean says, smiling at the Sam on screen. 

\---

Dean wakes up sprawled out on top of the covers, still in a t-shirt and jeans. He rolls over with a groan, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s got a low level buzz of a headache building at the base of his skull, and the light that’s streaming through the windows isn’t doing much to help that. He needs caffeine, stat. 

When he opens his eyes it takes him a second to place the ceiling. Right -- he’s at his parents’ place, in his old room. He turns his head and sees West Village brownstones through the windows, not his usual Tribeca loft building view. 

He pushes himself up onto an elbow, rubbing a hand across his face and taking a second to pull himself back together. He crashed pretty fucking properly last night, face first into the pillows. He knew it was coming eventually, he’d been pushing sleep further and further away, held back by a tenuous wall of black coffee and Adderall. 

(So he’d been _mildly_ lying to John. He doesn’t count it).

He finds his phone in his jacket pocket, and then almost drops it like it’s burned him when he sees what time it is. 

“ _Fuck_ \--” He’s up fast, hopping around on one foot and putting one shoe on while trying to find the other. 

He nearly races right past Sam in the kitchen. The only reason he does stop is because Sam reaches out to catch him around the waist with one of his giant moose arms, making Dean come perilously close to toppling over. 

“Sit down and eat,” Sam says, using the backwards momentum to drop Dean unceremoniously into a chair. 

“Dude, I had to be up at the studio like _three hours_ ago--” 

“Dad was here earlier, Mom talked to him. You’re good.”

Sam shoves his half eaten sandwich at Dean, raising his eyebrows at him. 

“... Is that peanut butter and banana?” Dean asks, staring at the sandwich. 

“Eat up,” Sam says, grinning. Dean bites into the sandwich with a small moan that makes Sam laugh. 

“Thanks, dude,” Dean says around a mouth of sandwich. “Wait. This isn’t a ploy to spring some more horrible news on me, is it?”

“Oh my god, Dean, I’m not dying, I’m just traveling.” 

“For _four months_.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“You’re dwelling on this about 100% too much, so: forcible topic change. How’s the collection coming?” Sam asks. 

“Bitch,” Dean mutters.

“Jerk. Collection progress, etc?”

“Considering I’ve been running around tracking down a bunch of prints for like a month, who knows. Half of the collection is probably going to be stuff I didn’t even know existed until I see it come down the runway.” 

“Wait, since when are there prints happening?”

“Since I made the executive decision that all solid grey is an abomination and swapped half of it for actually interesting shit.” 

“Wow, and Dad listened to you?”

“First time for everything. He’s too busy getting excited over all the outerwear.” Dean shakes his head, stealing Sam’s soda. 

“The man has a total coat obsession. We need to stage an intervention.”

“Pretty fucking much. He thinks he’s Christopher Bailey or some shit.” 

Sam smirks before stealing the soda back, earning a glare from Dean. 

“Go take a shower, relax, and then head in,” Sam says. “Everything’s still going to be where you left it an hour from now.”

“You say that, but the last time I was late Garth and Charlie actually did move all my shit around just to fuck with me,” Dean says. 

Sam laughs, head tipping back, and Dean can’t help the soft grin that spreads across his face. 

\---

Dean drags Charlie with him to model casting, because the last couple of seasons John’s dumped that particular bit of fun on Dean’s head. The first time he did it, Dean thought about purposely casting a bunch of girls that John would never approve of, but he knew it was more trouble than it was worth. John wasn’t the kind of man who would accept a sucky pass at something, he’d just make you do it all over again. Dean might be a bit of a masochist, but he’s certainly not enough of one of one to attempt to recast a whole show with only a week left. 

Dean already knows Ruby’s opening. She’s been a standard for them for a few years running, so she shows up more as a formality than anything, at this point. 

“I’m interested in the fresh meat,” she says with a smirk. Dean just sighs and pats the chair next to him, which Ruby happily takes. 

“You know it’s all going to be mostly dead meat,” Dean says.

“Your dad has _got_ to move past heroin chic,” Charlie mutters. 

“Tell me about it,” Dean says. “1996 called, they want their models back.”

“Does this mean I look like I’m dying?” Ruby asks, twirling a lock of hair around her finger and looking thoughtful. 

“Why not just do your own thing?” Charlie asks. “You’ve been doing this for long enough that he trusts you to know what’s good for the collection. And your dad’s aesthetic isn’t what it was in the 90s, either. Not by a long shot.” 

“Because he’ll just assume I can’t pull my head out of my ass for long enough to cast a couple of models,” Dean says. “And then he’ll make me re-do everything.”

“Half and half,” Ruby says. “Ease him into it.”

“She’s got a point,” Charlie says. 

“Fine,” Dean mutters, if only because he’s _way_ over his dad’s usual taste. 

This is how they end up with a handful of models who actually look like they might not be three minutes from death and/or easily blown over in a stiff wind. Dean’s actually pretty happy by the end of casting, although he’s still missing one model. 

“You’ve only got this one left,” Charlie says, pointing at a polaroid of a girl with long dark hair and extremely blue eyes. 

“Have we seen her yet?” Dean asks. 

“Nope, she’s outside though,” Ruby says. “I saw her when I went out to get coffee.”

“Can you go grab her?” Charlie asks. 

Ruby returns a minute later with the girl from the photo. Her long hair is pulled back in a braid, and her face is flushed, eyes wide. She looks amazingly alive, and not just for a model, but for a human in general. There’s warmth in her face that Dean instantly loves, especially since the collection is a solid wall of cool greys. 

He doesn’t need to see her walk, he’s pretty much made up his mind the minute she steps into the room. 

“What’s your name?” Dean asks. 

“Hael,” she says. She’s smiling, her shoulders back and arms loose. 

“I like her,” Dean says, turning to Charlie with a grin. Charlie just rolls her eyes and hands over one of their cards. 

It’s dark when they finally leave, the city lit by the light pooling from streetlights, headlamps, and the high windows that line the street. Dean tips his head back and breaths out, open mouthed, watching as steam curls from his mouth in the cold. 

“Can you get through fashion week without fucking any of the models?” Charlie asks. 

“Actually, that hadn’t crossed my mind,” Dean says. 

“Having a dick moment, or are you finally growing up?” Charlie asks. 

“Having a Sam moment.” When this is met with silence he realizes what he’s just said. “Oh my god, fuck, no, not like that.”

“You two _are_ the White Stripes of the fashion industry, after all,” Ruby says, raising an eyebrow. 

“How does _anyone_ not know we’re brothers by now?” Dean grouses. 

“Because he’s your date to the Met Ball every year and you two are attached at the hip,” Charlie points out. 

“Ugh,” Dean mutters, before suddenly stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Ruby actually bumps into him. “Oh my god, the Met Ball.”

“You do realize you have months to figure out an outfit, right?” Charlie asks. “It’s not _tomorrow_.”

“Sam’s probably not going to be here for it,” Dean says, staring straight head, jaw slightly unhinged. 

“Oh shit,” Charlie says. 

“Yep, everyone is definitely going to speculate that you two are getting a divorce,” Ruby says. Dean glares when she smirks at him. 

“I’m having a moment here, asswipe,” Dean says. 

“We’ll find you a date,” Charlie says. She loops an arm through one of Dean’s and starts to pull him along, offering him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. 

“Maybe Jess’ll let him come back for it,” Dean says.

“You two are ridiculous,” Ruby says. 

Dean knows she’s probably right. 

\---

The night before everything kicks off Dean actually runs into Sam at their apartment. Between conflicting schedules and various other crash pads, they haven’t actually seen each other at home for weeks. 

“Stranger danger,” Sam says when Dean flops down on the couch next to him. “Was starting to think you’d moved back in with Mom and Dad.”

“Hell no,” Dean groans, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushions. “What’re your plans tomorrow?”

“Probably same as yours. Nick K, Shoji, David Hart, Edun.”

“I really want to see Duckie Brown, but they’re butting up against Shoji and they’re like roughly 8 million blocks apart.”

“Run, Forest, run,” Sam says. When Dean looks over at him he’s smirking. “You know what you’re going to wear?”

“Clothes,” Dean says. He’s crafted an image out of artfully disaffected 90s grunge a bit past it’s sell-by date. It’s done wonders for his public image, he can leave the apartment wearing pretty much anything and no one will bat an eyelash. 

“Good plan,” Sam says, patting Dean on the leg and getting up. Dean closes his eyes, sinking as far into the couch as the leather will let him. His fingers and lips are almost numb, the buzz of two weeks of work and little sleep anchored under his skin. This always happens as fashion week creeps up, leaves him feeling like his skin doesn’t fit quite right. 

The couch dips again and Sam bumps their knees together, getting his attention. When he opens one eye he finds Sam holding out a beer for him. 

“You’re awesome,” Dean says, taking it. Sam holds his up and they clink the bottles together. 

“Cheers,” Sam says, “to another week of looking fabulous and not getting run over by cabs.”

“One of those is significantly easier than the other.”

“In your case, I’m not sure which one.”

Dean elbows Sam for that, and they get into a minor scuffle in which their beers are carefully set aside before elbows and knees start flying again, their laughter loud against the high ceilings. 

Neither of them have eaten, so they shoulder on coats and shove on boots and head out to get pizza. In the dark the cold snap in the air is sharper, meaner, and Dean ducks his chin into his scarf, tugging the zipper on his jacket as far up as it will go. 

“The whole ‘badass in leather’ image is kind of ruined by your very fluffy scarf,” Sam teases, his smile wide. 

“Shut up, it’s cold,” Dean says. “I’m a practical badass.”

“Oh, totally,” Sam says. He looks serious, but Dean knows he’s not even trying to be serious for a second. 

It’s late on a Wednesday night, so the pizza place around the corner is almost empty. They grab half a pizza to share and squeeze around one of the small tables, using the spare chairs to put their feet up. Aside from the shuffle of the guy behind the counter and tinny, static sound coming from the radio by the register, it’s quiet inside, the traffic and sirens shut out with the cold. 

“Hey, are we going to be ok this week?” Sam asks between slices. “I know I kind of sprung this on you at a bad time, but I mean, I had to tell you at some point. I just don’t want this to fuck anything up.”

Dean sighs, tugging at his scarf before resting a wide palm over his collarbone. 

“We’re going to be ok,” Dean says. “It’s fashion week. I’ll be pissed at you later.”

“Cool,” Sam says with a smile. “I can deal with that. You ready for Wednesday?”

“We’re almost a full week away from that, I’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

“I don’t think --”

“No, no, that was exactly what I meant to say.” 

Sam reaches out to flick at Dean’s forehead, and Dean snaps at Sam’s finger, making Sam choke back a laugh. 

“From what I’ve seen, the collection looks awesome,” Sam says. “You guys’ll kill it, you always do.” 

“Here’s to hoping,” Dean says, raising the slice of pizza he’s holding. 

“Nah,” Sam says, smiling softly. “Here’s to _knowing_.”


	2. Prophets II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wrote this as 4 long chapters and have split it up into 7 shorter ones. However, I'm not totally down with where I'm having to break the original chapters in half, so I'm going to change the posting schedule a bit to Tuesday and Thursday so that the whole original chapter will drop in the space of a few days, instead of taking a whole week. That'll start next week. :)

Dean is pretty sure the only downtime he gets during fashion week is when he’s stuck in traffic in a cab. Sam insists on spending the whole week tweeting and instagramming like a crazy person, and Dean has no idea how he keeps up with it. They’ve got a social media person for shit like this, Dean wouldn’t even try to deal with any of it. 

It’s Saturday, smack in the middle of rush hour, and he and Mary are trying to get from Alexander Wang to Monique Lhuillier, which includes traversing a freakishly large chunk of Manhattan as fast as humanly possible.

“I feel like the subway might have been a good idea,” Mary says, checking her watch. They’re mired in traffic in Soho. 

“That probably would have still been too slow. I’m thinking nothing short of sacrificing a couple of goats and a virgin or two would get us there on time,” Dean says. 

“Well, I’m fresh out of goats _and_ virgins, how about you?”

“Similar situation.”

“We’re giving this five more minutes and then we’re hoofing it.”

Five more minutes finds them creeping across Houston. Mary tells the cabbie to just let them out, flashing her credit card at the reader as she tells him where to pull over, already opening her door. They weave between gridlock, heading for the subway. Dean’s always kind of amazed at the fact that Mary can do this in 4-inch pumps; he’d end up on his face if he ever tried. 

(He has, actually, once. He was drunk and high though, which probably stacked all odds against him. He had fallen into Sam and they’d collapsed in a giggling mess on a friend’s couch, movements sloppy and slow, the party going on around them).

For a Saturday evening, the subway is pretty busy. Dean just follows Mary’s blonde bob and [brightly patterned coat](http://i.imgur.com/e37jhEy.jpg). When he’d first seen her today he couldn’t help smiling when he spotted the coat through the crowd -- it had been meant to go down the runway two collections ago, but John had ended up falling in love with it and had it re-tailored for Mary. It had been his anniversary gift to her last year. The fabric, however, had been all Dean. He’d worked with their detailers for months on the design work. 

“How was Louise Goldin?” Mary asks, once they’re on the train heading uptown. “You dad has an eye on her.”

“Overall, good,” Dean says. “Sam should have come with me, he would have had a structure-gasm. It was a bit uneven though. There was just a lot of shit that went into it, and I’m not sure it all coalesced.” 

“I thought Sam was going with you?”

“I lost him to friggin’ Chloe Sevigny.”

Mary shakes her head, smiling quietly. 

“He’s the popular one in this family,” Mary says. 

“It’s the cheekbones,” Dean says. “Gives him an unfair advantage.” 

“Oh please, you both have faces to die for. It would be genetically impossible for either of my children to have lackluster cheekbones.” 

Dean laughs, letting his head hang. The train lurches, losing contact with the third rail for a moment and making the lights flicker before surging back. The train is packed, and when Dean looks up he watches a couple lean into each other, one snaking an arm around the other as the train sways back and forth. 

“Dean.” Mary’s voice is soft, just loud enough to be heard. When Dean drags his eyes back to her, blinking slowly, he’s not surprised to see that she’s managed to pull her camera out without him noticing. With the battery grip and 135mm on it it’s massive in her smaller hands, but she deftly maneuvers it around with her spare hand, fingers of the other wrapped around the pole. The camera is in front of her face before Dean has a chance to react, and he’s sure he’s clear eyed and open faced, like he is in most of her photos. 

Mary has spent years walking a step or two behind both him and Sam, calling their names from time to time to get them to turn to her. They always do, like her voice is reeling them in, and those are the photos that Dean remembers the most. He remembers walking down the boardwalk in Rye in early spring, the buildings closed and the beach mostly empty, and remembers Mary there with her camera. Remembers turning to find her voice on a busy street in Brera, a tiny gelato spoon wedged in his mouth and Sam looking over Dean’s shoulder. Remembers hurrying up the steps out of the Metro at Saint-Michel in the pouring rain at twilight, the city lit up behind him with an ethereal, almost unnatural light. 

“The white balance on that is going to be totally shitty,” Dean says, one corner of his mouth ticking up in a half grin. 

“Oh ye of little faith,” she says. “Never underestimate my powers.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it for a second.”

The lights flicker again, and for the space of a heartbeat Mary’s face is lit by the soft glow from the screen of the camera, showing off a quiet smile, before the lights come back up. 

\---

Tuesday night after Michael Bastian, they end up at a party at Avenue, the music loud and the booze plenty. Ruby joins them, her hair still slick and make-up heavy from her last show, and shows up toting a friend. 

“Meg, meet the Winchester boys,” Ruby says. They’re all leaning close over the table to be heard over the thumping base. “Winchesters, meet Meg, the intrepid blogger.” 

“Journalist,” Meg says, sounding like she’s had to make that particular distinction a hundred times. “I actually have a legitimate job, believe it or not.” 

Even though Dean is making sure that they've got a pretty constant supply of alcohol, he and Meg are the ones drinking most of it. For a smaller chick, she’s putting it away as good as she gets, which Dean appreciates. He’s down with people half his size who can keep up with him. 

They’re 24 hours away from another collection and Dean doesn’t even really care, because that’s not what he’s worried about. He’s never really ever worried about presenting collections, he was raised into it. There’s no room for anything but getting the job done. Everything’s ready to go, they just have to send the damn thing down the runway now and then appear for all of 30 seconds at the end of it. He can do that, easy.

Instead he’s having an internal freak-out about Sam leaving. He promised Sam he’d be cool, though, so he makes small talk with Meg, eavesdrops on Sam and Ruby talking from time to time, and knocks back overly-fancy cocktails. 

A decent number of drinks in and the world starts to sway, same way it always does when there’s warmth in his veins. He leans his head back, throwing an arm around the back of the booth, his arm brushing Sam’s shoulders, and watches as people swarm on the dance floor. It’s a mess of people from all walks of the industry, the photographers at the end of the runway moving in time with the models they were just snapping at, everyone and anyone. It’s a cacophony of not only sound but color, every dressed perfectly. 

Dean licks his lips, tasting vodka, and leans close in towards Sam so he can be heard. 

“I’m getting some air,” he says. Sam nods, and as Dean’s getting up Ruby pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her purse, handing them over as he passes. He nods at her, tucking them into his back pocket and pushing through the writhing mass of technicolor bodies in the direction of the door. 

The minute he’s outside in the cold it’s like he’s entered another world, the noise of the club shut away. There are cars streaming by, people hurrying to destinations, all little bits and pieces of the normal world. 

He lights a cigarette as he’s crossing the street, stopping under the High Line to fumble the lighter back into his pocket and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to stop things from spinning as he inhales. He’s probably a bit drunker than he thought, but whatever. That’s a temporary problem. 

He walks the full square of the intersection, putting one foot in front of the other in a wobbly line as the cigarette burns down. It’s when he’s almost back at Avenue that he nearly bumps into someone walking past. 

“Shit, sorry man,” Dean says. When he backs up and turns a half step to see the guy his mouth drops open in soft surprise, because _shit_. The first thing he takes in is that he’s massively glad he didn’t actually go cigarette first into the guy, because he’s wearing what Dean is pretty sure is a Merrion suit. The second thing he notices is that it’s Castiel fucking Milton, who he was definitely fucking once upon a time. He hasn't seen him in years though, except in the detached way that you see everyone twice a year at Fashion Week. 

“Dean,” Cas says, sounding just as surprised as Dean feels. Dean swallows hard, because he’s drunk and in addition to wearing a gorgeous suit, Cas is also looking really fucking great. It's distracting. 

“Holy shit, I nearly just ashed your Merrion,” Dean says. It seems like safer ground than _hey remember when we were fuck buddies?_

“You’ve always had a good eye,” Cas says. 

“I don’t fuck around with good tailoring,” Dean says. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says, head tilted slightly to one side. His surprise is either gone or buried under a rock wall of carefully placed distance. “Where’s the other half of the Winchesters?”

“Not here,” Dean says, gesturing vaguely. “Um, so… is this awkward?”

“Only possibly for you,” Cas says with an arched brow.

Dean purses his lips, glaring. When he takes another drag on his cigarette, he might blow the smoke somewhat directionally towards Cas.

“It’s not awkward,” Dean says, and Cas just looks straight back at him and _screw him_ for looking so put together and perfect when Dean’s in ripped jeans and drunk. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Cas says. “How’s the line?”

“Awesome,” Dean says flippantly. “No other way.”

 _That_ gets a wry smile out of Cas, and Dean tries to pass off the warmth in his stomach as drunk victory when really he knows it’s because he’s been enamored with that smile for a hell of a long time. 

“I’m looking forward to this season’s collection,” Cas says, and he actually sounds like he might be. “It was good seeing you.”

Dean’s having a hard time following the conversation, but he knows he’s rapidly losing the ability to be objective about Cas, so he just nods, swallowing thickly. 

“Same. And, uh, see you tomorrow,” Dean says. Castiel walks backwards a few steps before turning around and leaving Dean standing there with a stub of a cigarette and some conflicted feelings. 

He drops what’s left of the cigarette, grinding it into the pavement under the toe of his boot, and watches as Cas walks away. If he were sober he’d be questioning why he’s fixating on the width of Castiel’s shoulder under his perfectly tailored suit, but he’s not sober, so he doesn’t have to worry. 

Even drunk though, he spends the rest of the evening feeling like he passed up on something he should have done. 

\---

They sleep in, only waking up when the sun hits the wide windows. Dean had collapsed into bed with Sam, not in any mood to deal with the ladder up to the loft, and sometime during the night Sam seems to have stolen about 90% of the bedding. 

“You look like a burrito,” Dean accuses, trying to make it sound like an insult. 

Sam just laughs, sleepy and deep, and Dean kicks at him until he relinquishes some of the covers. 

“You ready for today?” Sam asks, scooting onto his side so that he can look at Dean. His eyes are lidded and his hair is an absolute mess. Dean grins and reaches out, shoving his hand through Sam’s hair, mussing it up even further and earning a squawk out of Sam. He bats Dean’s hand away, glaring. 

“Dude, your bedhead is legendary,” Dean says. Sam tugs some of the covers back over to his side of the bed in retaliation. “Oh my god, don’t get your tits in a twist.” 

“Hey, you’re in my bed,” Sam says. “My covers, my rules, and I rule that I deserve more of them. I _am_ taller.”

“That’s your cross to bear, Sasquatch, not mine.”

Sam huffs and narrows his eyes at Dean. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, beauty sleep,” Dean says, finally releasing some of the sheets back over to Sam.

“My face is insured for more than your life,” Sam says, totally deadpan. He grabs the covers with a bit more force than strictly necessary. It takes Dean’s sleep-addled brain a second to catch up with that, but when he does he bursts out laughing, rolling onto his back and tipping his head, eyes shut. He can feel it in his whole body, the laughter everywhere, something that only Sam can get out of him. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Dean says, wiping tears away. “Listen to you.”

“Actually I was trying to listen to you, but you refuse to talk about what you’re feeling.”

“Um, duh. Yes, I’m ready for today. I really don’t have to do much. The tough shit was over a week ago.” 

“Just checking,” Sam says, and then fails rather spectacularly to stifle a yawn. 

“We should get up,” Dean says. He doesn’t particularly mean it. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. He sounds about as convincing. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving.” It kind of tumbles out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it. Sam opens his mouth like he’s about to kick out a default response, realizes what Dean’s just said, and then closes his mouth as his eyes go wide. 

“You… you can’t believe I’m leaving.” Sam sounds surprised. Dean has a feeling it has to do with the fact that Dean just voluntarily offered something up, but his heart is suddenly pounding in a way that makes it very hard to concentrate on anything else. 

“That is what I said, asswipe. I know I promised that we’d be all cool and shit this week, but, man, you’re leaving in like three days.”

“Yeah,” Sam says before swallowing hard. “It’s not forever though, you know?”

Dean nods, not trusting his own voice, and Sam reaches across the divide to curl two fingers around Dean’s pendant where it’s resting on the sheets. He gives it a little tug, a simple, small movement, and Dean can feel some of the tension leak out of his shoulders and spine. 

“You better send me a fucking boatload of stupid postcards from every single place you go, you hear?” Dean asks. 

“I will find the very stupidest to send you,” Sam says, a grin spreading across his face. “And, who knows, I might even _call_ you.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, the words getting dragged out into a laugh when Sam tugs a bit harder on Dean’s necklace, reeling him in so that he can press their foreheads together. 

“We really should get up,” Sam sighs, pulling back. “Mendel’s in like two hours.”

“Ugh, fuck that,” Dean groans. “We should just stay here and skip it.”

“Developed a sudden PETA-like need to boycott them?”

“Oh yeah, that’s me. Hi, I’m Dean Winchester and I hate red meat and leather.” 

Sam dissolves into laughter, rolling onto his back and letting his arms fall wide, one of them nearly slapping Dean in the face. Dean shoves at him, but he can’t get him to move very far, so he gives up, pressing cold toes to Sam’s legs instead. 

They eventually get up, but not before the cold feet battle escalates into a ‘who can steal the most bedding’ war. 

\---

Walking into the central courtyard of 5 Beekman is always a trip. There’s light filtering down from the skylight high above, catching curling edges of paint and warped wood. In it’s own broken down way it sparkles, and Dean loves it. 

He stands for a moment, head tipped back and eyes closed, and takes a deep breath. It’s a weird mix of smells, mildew and dust, new paint and fresh wood. There are only a few people milling around at the moment, but in a few hours he knows that the building is going to have a beating heart again, right where he’s standing. 

“Photosynthesizing?” Sam asks. Dean rolls his head to the side, opening his eyes and grinning at Sam. 

“I’ll take the caffeine instead,” Dean says, nodding to one of the Starbucks cups Sam is holding. Sam hands it over, and Dean takes a drink absentmindedly as he looks around. “I don’t know how it would work, space-wise, but eventually I want to do a show right here.”

“Just ditch the runway and you could make it work,” Sam says with a shrug. “You guys would be far from the first to do it.”

“Maybe,” Dean says. “Wanna come help me pretend to oversee hair and make-up?”

Sam laughs, but he does follow him through the dusty halls, crunching over peeling pieces of paint scattered across the ground. 

Walking backstage is like flipping a switch -- everything is a flurry of activity, people moving in blurs around them. They stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment, watching as people roll racks of clothes by and models dart around, their hair pinned back and earbuds in. 

Considering they’ve had the same team for a few seasons now who have been doing pretty much the same look, Dean really wasn’t kidding about just pretending to oversee hair and make-up. He's here because this is his spot before shows, but everyone’s got everything covered. Ash and Pam wouldn’t allow anything less than perfection. 

He and Sam lean against the edge of one of the make-up tables, next to where Ruby’s got Ash working on her lips. She looks up when they come over, a glint in her eye. 

“Bring any Starbucks for me?” She asks when she can talk, smirking. 

“Eyes shut,” Ash says, and Ruby complies, something that never fails to kind of jar Dean. He’s used to Ruby being mouthy and obstinate, but when push comes to shove she always listens at the drop of a hat. “And they better not have, because I’m not redoing your lip color.” 

“Wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of Dr. Badass,” Sam says. Ruby just huffs out a little laugh. 

“Damn straight. How’s it looking so far?” Ash asks. 

“Looks awesome,” Dean says. “Keep on keeping on.”

“Aye aye, fearless leader,” Ash says, offering up a mock salute. Dean returns it with a sharp grin. 

They stop to talk to a few other make-up artists, go bug Pam to check on hair, and then go in search of John. Everyone moves around them like they’re on fast forward, darting and rushing, but Dean just can’t be bothered to hurry. Right now, he’s at zen levels of knowing what he needs to do and where he needs to be. Rushing doesn’t factor into that equation anywhere. 

John’s with Charlie and Garth, looking through a rack while Hael stands next to them. She’s dressed, but she’s barefoot and her hair is still pulled back with clips, neither hair nor make-up quite done. 

“Anything catastrophic happen yet?” Dean asks, sticking a hand in his back pocket and sipping his coffee. 

“We’ve decided to change the accessories around a bit,” Garth says, ever the diplomat when what he really means is ‘your dad decided to go off reservation about clutches and shoes’. 

“Dean, I need one of the mint clutches and one of the cream and white envelope ones,” John says, staring at Hael like her clothes hold the secrets to the universe. 

“Hold,” Dean says, handing his Starbucks over to Sam and then heading for the bags of clutches. He’s pretty sure he had one of the black box clutches with Hael’s look originally, but John always tends to fuck around with accessories at the last minute.

Charlie finds him when he’s trying to locate the lone mint clutch in the collection. She holds up the clutch in question with her eyebrows raised, grinning. 

“You’re a rockstar,” Dean says. 

“I know,” Charlie says, handing it over. “I saw one of the assistants move it like half an hour ago. I see _all_.”

“You do, it’s handy,” Dean says. “Although I know all. Watch this: he’s gonna pick the cream and white one.”

“I’d be surprised,” Charlie says. 

(He picks the cream and white one. Charlie just rolls her eyes and Dean spreads his arms wide, walking backwards with a look that says _I’m awesome_ ).

Time ticks down, and with ten minutes to go Dean starts making sure that all the models are where they need to be with everything they need. When he’s positive that no one’s missing he hands his clipboard to Charlie, kisses her on the temple and then makes his way to where Sam is standing, perched on a stack of pelican cases a safe distance from the flurry of models. 

He bumps Sam’s hip with his own before crossing his arms and leaning against the wall next to him. 

“I really like the look you have… uh, Hael? In,” Sam says. Dean grins, looking over to where she’s standing. 

“Aside from the clutch, that’s one look that’s all me,” Dean says. 

“Probably why I like it so much,” Sam says. He smiles, swinging an arm around Dean’s shoulder. “Way to be awesome.”

“Can’t help it, it comes naturally,” Dean says with a wide grin, and Sam laughs. 

The chatter on the other side of the wall dies down. There’s a moment of silence, and Dean knows everyone in the ballroom next door is in the dark, waiting for the lights to come up and the music to start. 

The first few notes kick out deep enough to feel it in the walls, and Dean can see Charlie mouth _and, go_ to Ruby. 

Ruby straightens up, face falling to neutral, and steps past the divider.


	3. Belo I

If the zen high he gets right before and during their shows is his favorite part of fashion week, his least favorite is _definitely_ the immediate press mob right after. There are only a finite amount of times he can parrot the same answers over and over again before he starts to get a bit snarky, and after the press incident from Spring-Summer 2011 he’s not allowed to sass out any more journalists. 

(It had so been worth it, though.)

He and Sam stand back to back in the atrium surrounded by tape recorders, moleskines, cameras, and the people attached to them, and manage to get through interviews without going totally off the rails. Sam elbows Dean once and Dean kicks back at Sam in retaliation, but for the most part everything they say wouldn’t give either of their publicists a heart attack. 

When they finally manage to get free, Dean dragging Sam through the crowd of people by the wrist, they don’t stop until they’re outside in the cold. Dean buries his hands in his jean pockets and lets out a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment. 

“When I’m ruler of the universe there will be no press,” Sam says, startling a laugh out of Dean. 

“Planning that campaign already?” Dean asks. 

“Obviously,” Sam says. 

When they see one of the front row starlets coming down the street, cameras following her and her entourage, they duck into an alcove, Sam pulling his beanie down over his eyebrows. Luckily, she warrants way more attention and interest than the kids of some random designer. 

(Never mind that said kids are a designer in their own right and one of the current it-boy models). 

“Hiding from the paparazzi?” Someone asks. They both turn to find Cas standing on the sidewalk, as impeccably dressed and good looking as pretty much always. 

(Dean has always, privately, had a tough time deciding if he looks better in his perfect suits or when he’s beautifully undone.)

“Pressed out for the day, man,” Sam says, extending a hand. “Sam Winchester.”

“Castiel Milton, pleasure.” The deep scratch in his voice makes Dean lick his lips without even really thinking about it. 

“Oh, Anna’s brother!” 

Dean stares at Sam, and it takes him a moment to realize that Sam never met Cas. It wasn’t like Dean was bringing him around for dinner, or anything. 

“I’m guessing she’s told you about me,” Castiel says with a small grin. 

“Yeah, man, last time I saw her she was freaking out about some feat of tailoring you pulled off. I didn’t even know Anna had emotions besides tranquil terminator until that point,” Sam says. “Oh, uh, sorry, and this is Dean.”

“We’ve met, actually,” Castiel says. His eyes are dark, and Dean’s mouth goes a bit dry. It’s hard to tear his eyes away. 

“I literally ran into him last night. You missed the golden opportunity to see me nearly go cig first into a Desmond Merrion,” Dean says, quick, scrambling for a recovery that doesn’t include Sam finding out the actual story of how they met. 

“Shit,” Sam says. “That would have been blackmail for ages.”

“The man himself probably would have appeared and taken you out,” Cas says. 

“Most likely,” Dean says. “Were you at the show?” 

“I was. I appreciated the monochrome, it was quite the change after last season’s collection,” Castiel says. 

“Gotta keep everyone on their toes,” Dean says. “Glad you enjoyed it.” It’s the same pre-approved stuff he’d spun to the press, just now for a different audience. 

“I’ve enjoyed your father’s work for a while,” Castiel says. “Although my favorite looks are all from collections after you started heading up the design team. The changes you brought have elevated the whole brand.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, taken aback. That’s off-script. “Um, thanks, man.”

“He gets like this when people compliment him,” Sam says, patting Dean on the shoulder. When Dean glares at him, Sam smirks right back. 

“You’re talented, Dean,” Castiel says. “You should own that.” 

Dean just kind of sputters for a second, and Sam actually laughs at him, the traitor. Dean guesses he knows what Cas thinks about his work, but he’s not sure if he’s ever heard Cas say it to his face. It’s strange to hear it, after hearing nothing from the guy for years. 

“I’m just the facilitator between my dad and the design team,” Dean mutters when he’s found his voice. 

“Whatever,” Sam says, sighing and rolling his eyes. “You know that’s bullshit.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, but he does lean into Sam when he slides an arm around Dean’s shoulders. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Cas says. “Will you two be in London?”

“Um,” Sam says. 

“I will be,” Dean says without thinking it through. 

“We should get dinner,” Cas says, pulling a business card out of his pocket. When he hands it over Dean sees that it’s one of the basic Theos Milton cards, nothing but the logo and the name, but when he turns it over _Castiel +39 346 3845874_ is scribbled on the back. It’s the not the number Cas had the last time, that one had been a UK number. “You too, Sam, if you’re around.”

“I’ll have to pass this time,” Sam says. “Duty calls.”

Dean’s not sure he can go out to dinner with Cas. He doesn’t even know why Cas is asking him. They hadn’t parted ways ugly, but they had parted. And here’s Cas, two years later, with a new phone number and dinner invitations. 

“Alright,” Cas says. “It was nice meeting you. And Dean, once again, the show really was amazing.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, flicking the card between his fingers and staring at it so that he doesn’t have to look at Cas. Then, against his better judgement, “I’ll give you a call when I’m in London.”

After Cas has gotten a safe distance down the block, Sam rounds on Dean, looking as amused as all get out.

“Dude,” Sam says. “ _Dude_. You just managed to get a Milton’s number.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, distracted. “Weird.”

Sam just gives him a look like he’s afraid Dean has lost his mind. 

\---

Dean’s life would be a lot easier if he wasn’t terrified of flying. Somehow, even though both he and Sam had grown up getting dragged around the globe via plane, Dean had ended up with a serious fear of flying, while Sam was perfectly fine with it. 

Dean’s already popped a diazepam and is nursing a travel mug full of screwdriver when the car pulls up to the curb. 

“You look like a soap opera housewife,” Sam notes, raising his eyebrows when Dean slouches out of their building wearing a giant pair of sunglasses and one of his more over-large coats. 

“I’m dulling the pain of our divorce, Samuel,” Dean says dramatically. “If you hadn’t served me with those papers the day before our anniversary I wouldn’t be self medicating.” 

The driver gets out looking confused. Dean can’t blame him, considering Sam’s doubled over laughing and Dean’s hiding behind overly large sunglasses and glaring over the top of a travel mug. 

“Those are Gucci, aren’t they,” Sam says once they’re in the car. 

“Shut up,” Dean says from behind his travel mug. 

“Oh my god, they are,” Sam says, poking at the logo on the temple. Dean pulls away, glaring. “Did you bring your LV suitcases as well? Possibly your Chanel flip-flops?” 

“Hey, it could be worse, they could be Versace,” Dean says. 

“Dude, you ever go out in public -- no, you ever even _buy_ a pair of Versace sunglasses, and we are over for real. I swear I’ll move out,” Sam says. 

Dean just grins and hands over the travel mug. 

“It’s 7 in the morning,” Sam says. 

“Orange juice is traditionally had with breakfast,” Dean says, totally innocent. 

“I’m not sure how traditional the 75% vodka is.”

“It is in this household. Drink up.” 

Sam takes one sip, scrunches up his nose, and hands it back. 

“God, I get PTSD flashbacks to that time in Barcelona every time I taste vodka,” Sam says, and Dean has to laugh. He remembers Barcelona (and Sam’s hilarious drunken antics) quite fondly. 

“Fine, lightweight,” Dean says. When he takes another swig he looks straight Sam, and Sam pulls a face, sticking his tongue out. 

“So,” Sam says after a few minutes of them both silently checking their phones. “You gonna call Castiel or what?”

“Possibly,” Dean says. He’s both been trying to avoid thinking about Cas and also doing a stupid amount of thinking about him. It’s not awesome.

“Dean,” Sam sighs. “You know you’re allowed to express interest in people.”

“I do. Constantly. Enthusiastically. Loudly.” 

Dean smirks and Sam pulls a face. 

“You know that’s not what I mean. Are you still not over Lisa?” Sam asks. 

Dean sighs, staring down at the mug in his hands for a moment, mulling it over before he decides to respond. Although, if anything, Lisa is a much easier topic of conversation than Cas. At least Sam’s aware of the full Lisa story, and Dean knows exactly what his feelings are towards her. Cas? Not so much on either front. 

“Sam, honestly? It’s going to take a long time to get over Lisa.” At Sam’s stunned look, his mouth dropped open and eyes wide, Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs. “You’re leaving me in like 12 hours, I’m giving you the gift of _feelings_.”

Dean spirit fingers with his free hand on ‘feelings’. 

“Holy shit,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, so, you know. I love Lisa. Maybe I always will. But man, we were shit together. She had this normal, whole life. She didn’t need my spectacularly messed up baggage.” 

“You do not have spectacularly messed up baggage,” Sam scoffs. “Of the two of us, I’d argue I’ve got way more.”

“We’ve got different kinds,” Dean says. “We deal with it differently. I tend to drag it into relationships. And Lisa was outside of everything, she didn’t need my shit.”

“You still talk to her?” Sam asks. 

“Sometimes,” Dean says. They’ll talk every once and a while, maybe once a month, and each month it’s easier to talk to her. Dean knows that they’ll be friends one day, maybe good friends. But Lisa will have her life, upstate with a dog and picket fence and Ben, and Dean will have his. They came crashing together, but they never fit together. 

“That’s good,” Sam says, and reaches out to tug on Dean’s scarf, playing with the fringe at the end for a second. 

“Hey Sammy?” Dean says, and Sam looks up at him. 

“Yeah?” Sam says. 

“Stay safe, ok? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t,” Sam says with a soft smile. “I’m good, I promise.”

“You’re still friends with Ruby,” Dean says. 

“Yeah, because I wasn't going to abandon her. That was a one time deal, I’ve told you that. Besides, I don’t think Jess even smokes. She’d probably kill me if I tried anything. Hell, I’d kill me.”

“Yeah, no death, either.”

“Ok,” Sam says, still smiling. He moves his hand up to the side of Dean’s neck from his scarf, and Dean leans into the touch, letting his eyes slip closed. “I’d tell you not to do anything I wouldn’t do while I’m gone, but… let’s be real, you’ll do the opposite.”

Dean laughs, low and quiet, and opens his eyes, turning to Sam. 

“Would you fuck a Milton?” Dean asks. 

“Nope,” Sam says brightly. “So you should do that.”

Dean just shakes his head, grinning quietly. 

\---

Any medically and alcoholly induced mellow buzz Dean had managed to work up for the flight is seriously lagging by the time they start their descent into Heathrow. He’s curled up in his seat, under a blanket, and glaring at the entertainment system. It’s shown nothing by the map of their progress for the last 45 minutes, because he’d been getting antsy enough that he’d turned off the movie he was watching, unable to concentrate on it. 

He looks back over his shoulder to find Sam across the aisle. He’s zonked out, legs kicked out in front of him and arms everywhere. Only he could do the unachievable and make first class seats look small, the giant. 

Dean turns back to glaring at the map. They’re evidently somewhere over the West Country. If it were light out he’d be making Sam switch seats with him so that he could frantically stare at the ground to gage it against his totally non-existent, born of anxiety knowledge of what altitude they should be at. Sam actually likes looking at the sights as they come into whatever city they’re travelling to, but Dean’s usually too busying worrying about if they’re going to slam into the runway going way too fast and die in a fiery ball of insta-death. 

He twists the edge of the blanket between his fingers and bites his lip. When the flaps on the wings go up and the landing gear comes down, wiring sinisterly, Dean frantically casts around for something to throw at Sam so that he’ll wake up. He comes up with a water bottle cap, which he manages to peg right at Sam’s nose, despite the fact that his hands are shaking. 

Sam sits upright, limbs flailing and eyes wide. He looks around for a moment, clearly horribly confused, before he settles on where Dean is leaning into the aisle, looking like a madman. 

“What?” Sam asks, drowsy and unfocused. 

“How close to the ground are we?” Dean hisses. 

“Uh--” Sam turns to stare out the window, running a hand through his hair. He pauses, pulls back, makes a face, and tips forward so that he can comb his hands through his hair. 

“Oh my god,” Dean says. “ _What are you doing?_ Are you fixing your hair? Right now?!” 

“Hold up,” Sam says, sitting back up and bunching his hair into a ponytail before pulling the elastic he’s wearing on his wrist off to tie it back with. Dean just gapes at him, mouth open. “How bad is it?”

“What -- how is that even a question?” Dean says. “Every time you put your hair up you look like an idiot, you know my stance on that.”

“It’s convenient,” Sam says, dramatically flicking the shorter strands of his bangs that won’t pull back out of the way, his palm flat. He grins at Dean. “Your jaw is going to fall off.”

“Ugh,” Dean says, snapping his mouth shut for a second. “You’re such a fucktruck.” 

The woman sitting in front of Sam clears her throat, eyeing Dean. He spares her a momentary glare before rounding back on Sam. 

“What even is a fucktruck?” Sam muses. The woman clears her throat a bit louder. “Like, I’ve always been curious. Same when you call someone a bag of dicks.”

“Do you mind,” the woman says quietly, rounding on them. “There are children on this flight.”

“Lady, do you see any of them here? No? Good,” Dean says, and then turns back to Sam. “I don’t know, god, they’re expressions. Why are you being such a bitch?”

(“I _will_ call one of the flight attendants over here,” the woman says. They ignore her.)

“I’m curious,” Sam says. “Especially since fucktruck always calls to mind like, Transformers sex or some shit.” 

“What?” Dean says. “What kind of weirdass porn have you been watching? _Transformers sex?_ ” 

(The woman is now leaning into the aisle, trying to catch the eye of the fight attendant in the jump seat at the head of the cabin. Dean spares her one quick glance, sees that she’s chatting with the attendant next to her and doesn’t seem to be getting unbuckled any time soon, and then turns back to Sam.)

“Or, most sensibly, could just be a truck for sex,” Sam muses. 

Dean opens his mouth to respond, and then is promptly jarred into grabbing the armrests like a lifeline when they slam down onto the runway. Dean takes a moment to hyperventilate before he realizes that, no, they are not dead, and yes, the captain is coming on the PA to welcome them to London. 

When he turns to look back, Sam has spread his arms wide, and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin. 

“Just call me the master of distraction,” Sam says happily. Dean clenches his jaw and glares, but secretly thinks that Sam’s a pretty great thing to have on a flight with you. 

\---

They stand shoulder to shoulder in front the departure board for longer than strictly necessary. It’s late enough at night that the first flights of the morning are up on the board, and the 6:30 AM to Istanbul is one of the first, up in the top left corner. 

“If it’s delayed it’s not going to show anything until tomorrow morning,” Sam points out. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He knows they’re both thinking that the longer they spend staring at this board, the more time they have together. “Look, I don’t care what kind of schedule you’re on for this stupid project, but I’m going to call you whenever I can.”

“You don’t have to,” Sam says, voice soft. “We’re going to be halfway around the world from each other, I’m working, you’re working.”

“Wish I wasn’t,” Dean says. “I hate designing resort shit.” 

“You and your shorts problem,” Sam laughs. 

“Fuck shorts,” Dean says. 

“You can crash with me if you want to,” Sam says. “Although we both have to be up at ass o’clock.” 

“Nah, you should get sleep,” Dean says. “I’ll head into the city.” 

They drag their feet through the terminal, heading for the bridge to the Sofitel. Dean watches the ground, not particularly feeling anything, just moving. When they finally stop at the last possible point, where they absolutely have to break apart and go different directions, they both stand silent for long heartbeats. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss you.” Sam breaks first, the words sounding like they’ve been punched out of him. Dean’s not sure who moves first, but they end up wrapped together in a bear hug, as tight as possible. 

“Same,” Dean says. He rests his head against Sam’s shoulder for a moment, lets Sam grab a fistful of his jacket. 

When they finally break apart Dean walks backwards for a few steps, stopping awkwardly when there’s some space between them. It feels like a chasm, gaping and wide. 

“I’m not gonna say goodbye,” Dean says, fierce. 

“Ok,” Sam says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Love you, jerk.”

“You too,” Dean says, and then, “bitch.” 

Dean watches Sam until he vanishes around the corner. It takes him a long time to finally move. He hitches his duffle a bit higher on his shoulder and stuffs his hands in his pockets before he finally turns to go, moving almost automatically. He feels disconnected, the world muffled and muted. He’s not sure exactly how he gets to the Tube, but he does, one foot in front of the other. 

The train is mostly empty, just a few other late flight stragglers, and it takes a while for the carriage to finally start filling up, somewhere around zone 3. It’s mostly teenagers, chattering and going into Central for god knows what on a Thursday. 

He’s not sure if he should feel tired or wired, but mostly, as he heads up the station steps at South Ken, he just feels blank. He’d be worried about how he finds his way to the flat without thinking, but the house off of Fulham has been the closest thing to a home outside of New York since he was a little kid, and he’s made this walk hundreds of times in his life. 

He fumbles through keys, his fingers not working like he’d like them to, and takes him a minute to realize that everything on the keyring belongs to locks in New York -- his parents’ place, his and Sam’s apartment, the studio, their storage unit, the garage they keep the Impala in, and the Impala's keys. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, swinging his shoulder bag around to dig around in the outside pocket. He eventually comes up with his other set of keys. This one is significantly more uneven and mismatched, keys to various apartments scattered across Europe that range from the fairly standard keys to the flat here to the honest to god skeleton key for the front door of the building in Paris. 

“Dean?”

He turns around to find Mary and John, arm in arm. He hadn’t even heard them come up. 

“Oh, hey guys,” Dean says. They’d taken an earlier flight, but Dean had expected them to be home, not out at almost eleven at night. 

“Did you forget your keys?” John asks, and Dean shakes his head, holding up the correct keys before turning back to the door. 

He drops his bags at the foot of the stairs and wanders into the kitchen only to find the fridge empty. Duh. No one’s been here for months. 

“Are you ok?” Mary asks when she follows him into the kitchen. 

“Uh, mostly,” Dean says. “What were you two crazy kids doing out?”

“Dinner with Kevin and Leonard,” Mary says. 

“Ah, photographer state dinner,” Dean says, and then nearly walks into the edge of the table. At Mary’s concerned look he sighs, his shoulders slumping a bit. “Don’t be angry, but I’m coming off of some… self medicating. And Sam’s gone.” 

“Honey,” Mary says. She crosses to him and takes his face in her hands, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his forehead. He curls his fingers around her wrists almost out of habit, leaning into her. “Because of Sam or because of the flight?”

“Bit of both?” 

“You know, you could see someone about the fear of flying. It wouldn’t hurt to ask for help,” Mary says. 

“Why, so they can prescribe me benzo and shove me out the door? I’ve already got the medicinal part covered.” 

“No, so you could _talk_ to them and not have to abusively chemically fix the problem.”

Dean sighs, letting his head hang, and Mary forces his head back up so that he’ll look at her. 

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Mary says.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs. “I’m not usually this bad, it’s just… Sam.”

“I know, baby,” Mary says, and opens her arms so that Dean can crumple into them. “I already miss him, too.” 

He closes his eyes and concentrates on the sound of Mary breathing, the feeling of her arms around him. At one point he hears John come in, but he doesn’t say anything, just gets a glass of water and leaves again. 

“Sorry,” Dean says finally, pulling away. “I’m acting like a little kid.”

“We all need to, sometimes,” Mary says. “You should go to bed, your internal clock must be having fun right now.” 

“Oh yeah, total riot,” Dean says with a lopsided grin. 

Mary gives him one last hug and then sends him upstairs. He stays upright long enough to strip out of his jacket and jeans and then crawls under the covers, staring at the glow of streetlights outside the window as he falls asleep.


	4. Belo II

He gets an early start the next morning. The house is still quiet when he leaves, and the sun is just rising when he locks the front door. He’s supposed to go to Bora Aksu, but instead of heading into the City he ends up on the Tube going north. 

Jo’s not expecting him, but she doesn’t seem particularly surprised either when he turns up. The studio is in half-organized chaos as things go into bags and boxes, although Jo’s in her office on the phone with someone. She holds up a finger when Dean slides in, and he leans against the glass wall and stares out the window. He can see the Overground tracks, dark brick under the grey sky, and a train goes past as Jo hangs up. 

“Hey, what’s up?” She asks, leaning forward on her desk. “You look like hell.”

“Jet lag,” Dean says. 

“That is one part of living in New York I don’t miss,” Jo says. “Where’s your other half?”

Dean checks his watch. “Probably somewhere over eastern Europe.” 

“What?” Jo asks, eyebrows drawn together. “Why?”

“He’s working on this total immersion photo project with Jess Moore, he left this morning.”

“Whoa. That’s big.”

“Yeah, hence why he ditched out on fashion week.”

“So you came over here to mope?”

“Way to be supportive.” 

Jo grins, standing up and rolling her shoulders out. 

“Here: I’m guessing you came over here to not think, so come help move shit.” 

It’s been a long time since Dean’s physically had to do the packing up for a show, but it’s easy, repetitive work, no thought required. He just has to be told what goes where and with what, and he’s down with that at the moment. 

From what he sees of the collection, it looks amazing. Jo and Bela do not fuck around, as much as they clash on pretty much every fundamental level. Everyone thought appointing them both last year meant Belo was going to go down in flames, but pretty much the exact opposite has happened. Evidently diametrical opposites are good for business. 

“You talked to my mom lately?” Jo asks when they’re boxing up the last of the shoes. 

“Ran into her at a few shows, but I’ve seen more of Bobby,” Dean says. “They miss you.”

“Trust me, I miss them as well, it’ll be awesome to see them. The minute everything is wrapped I’ve got a ticket home with them and I’m parking my ass on their couch and not moving for like, a week. My mom has promised home cooked meals. I am _so_ ready.” 

Dean laughs, sealing up the box and hefting it into the pile with the rest. Everything’s good to go for tomorrow morning. 

“Have you eaten yet?” Jo asks, only to get a head shake out of Dean. “Cool. There’s this awesome little place on the high street, and I’m starving.” 

Jo chatters about the collection as they walk, and Dean latches onto her voice as it echoes in the narrow street. The air around them is damp, the cobblestones already slick, and Dean would put good money on rain starting any minute. They luckily make it to the cafe before it does actually start to drizzle. 

“So,” Jo says after they’ve sat down. “I’d ask you how you’re holding up, but you’re obviously not.”

“Sorry,” Dean says. “I -- I need to get over this. It’s not like he’s cut off contact or anything.”

“You will,” Jo says. “Although I have a feeling you’re going to be a sourpuss until _at least_ Paris wraps.”

“Hopefully not,” Dean says. “I’d actually like to be present for a couple of shows instead of being the walking embodiment of mangst.”

Jo laughs, lips curving up as she reaches for her water. 

“But you’re so good at it,” Jo says, all sincerity, and Dean just has to grin. 

“What’s been up with you?” Dean asks, to get out from under the subject of his man pain. 

“You mean besides the collection?”

“Ok, dumb question. Anything in your life _besides_ the collection?”

“Is that a thinly veiled question about my love life? My mom totally put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“No,” Dean laughs. “But I am curious. What’s the skinny on your current boytoy, Jojo?”

“I don’t have one, that’s the skinny,” Jo says. “I tried dating this guy a couple of months ago but he turned out to be boring as hell. I should have run screaming when he dropped that he worked at Henderson.”

Dean nearly chokes on the sip of water he’s just taken.

“You tried dating a suit?” Dean says, eyes wide. “ _Why_.” 

“I don’t know!” Jo says, throwing her hands up. “I can’t even tell you why I tried. I think some part of me thought he’d be one of those nice, respectable types Bobby talks about.”

“ _Bobby’s_ not a nice, respectable type. It’s amazing the man survived the 70s.”

“You do have to wonder how he pulled that off.”

“Probably sheer force of will and an insane liver and metabolism.”

“Seriously,” Jo says. “And, it’s only fair: how’s your love life?”

“Also nonexistent. I got someone’s number the other day, which is the biggest thing to happen on that front since Lisa and I broke up,” Dean says. 

“Cute? Do we know who their favorite designer is? Or their social security number?” 

“You’re not judging the shit out of _or_ background checking my potential date.”

“I’m kind of shocked they’re a potential date.”

“Yeah, well, it’s complicated.”

“Of course it is,” Jo sighs. “Let me guess, you slept with them and then it got awkward?”

“Not exactly?” Semi-exactly. 

Jo just levels him with a look that says she can see right through his bullshit. Dean sighs, rubbing at his neck and starting down at the table. 

Cas’ number is still in his pocket, but he knows the whole _unknown_ part of the equation is stopping him. He has no idea why bumping into Cas on a grimy Manhattan street would suddenly warrant a reconnection, and that’s freaking him out a bit. What’s freaking him out even more is that he’s actually considering acting on that reconnection. 

\---

Jo convinces him to go to Christopher Raeburn with her, which just leads to a lot of bitching from Dean. 

“Boring,” Dean says afterwards when they’re safely out of the rain and at an overpriced pub in the City. “Total art school hipster.” 

“Stop ripping the poor kid apart,” Jo says, shoving a beer at him. “And drink.”

“I can do half of that,” Dean says. Jo rolls her eyes before pushing back from the table and heading for the bathroom. 

Dean settles back into his chair, crossing his arms and thinking. Jo’s been pestering him on and off all day with questions about this mystery date, and, as a consequence, he’s been dwelling on Cas way more than he has in years. They’d first started fucking because Cas had fought his way through a party to come talk to Dean after a spring show a couple of years ago. The party had been utter shit, Sam wasn’t there, and he’d been more than happy for the rescue when the one and only (and totally gorgeous) Castiel Milton had put the offer on the table to come back to his hotel. 

He’s not sure that either of them had meant for or even expected things to go on longer for one night. For a month they met up in various cities, not doing much besides staying up late talking, drinking, and fucking. At the end of the season, they’d just split up. Cas lived and worked in Milan, Dean in NYC, it didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense to try to push it. Dean had convinced himself that it was fine, and had gone on with life, trying not to think about the feeling of Cas’ hands and lips branded all over his body. 

(Or of the almost haunted look in his eyes when they’d said final goodbyes.)

“Oh, what the fuck,” Dean sighs. 

He pulls Cas’ card from his pocket after a moment of indecision. It’s starting to wear down on one edge from where he’s been running his finger along it. It takes him two tries to get the number right, he’s on autopilot enough that he punches in the calling code from the States the first time and gets a prerecorded message from EE saying that he’s an idiot who’s trying to do something impossible. 

“Tell me about it,” Dean mutters, dialing again. 

“ _Castiel Milton._ ” Cas picks up on the third ring. There’s enough background noise that Dean guesses he’s standing outside somewhere. 

“Hey, it’s uh, Dean. Winchester.” Dean mentally kicks himself. He’s pretty sure Cas knows who he is. 

For a moment Cas is silent, and Dean’s afraid he’s thinking about hanging up. 

“ _Hello, Dean._ ” Dean sags a bit in relief when Cas actually answers. “ _Made it to London in one piece?_ ”

“Yeah, I did.”

“ _Catch anything today?_ ”

“Just Raeburn. Nothing impressive.” It’s all bland, easy topics. 

Cas laughs, that rough sound that Dean has always loved, and he smiles, reaching for his beer and taking a sip. Jo winds her way back towards him, sitting down and looking at him questioningly. 

“ _Well, tomorrow should be better,_ ” Cas says. “ _Westwood and Belo, at least._ ”

“Considering I’m sitting across the table from one of Belo’s heads, I’m going to have to agree with that statement for the safety of my person,” Dean says. Jo kicks him in the shins under the table anyway. He wouldn’t expect anything less of her. 

“ _Bela or Joanna Harvelle?_ ” 

“Jo.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jo mouths, miming holding up a phone. Dean flips Cas’ card over and shoves it across the table. Jo’s eyes go wide, and she looks back up at Dean with her lips parted in surprise. 

“ _Well, I’ll let you get back to her,_ ” Cas says. 

“Yeah, uh. Before you go, I actually called you for a reason,” Dean says. “That dinner invite still on the table?” 

“ _Of course,_ ” Cas says. “ _I’m not sure exactly what my schedule looks like yet, but are you free tomorrow night?_ ”

“Should be,” Dean says. They’re both crazy people. This is the world’s worst idea. 

(Dean is unfortunately really spectacularly talented at making the world’s worst decisions.)

“ _I’ll text you when I know where I’ll be and we can go from there,_ ” Cas says. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says. It’s just so easy to fall back into this, almost like the last two years never happened. 

Jo is staring at him open mouthed when he hangs up. 

“Your possible date is one of the _Miltons_? Oh my god. Did you also happen to snag one of the Prada boy’s numbers?”

“Aren’t they jailbait?” Dean asks, pulling a face. 

“They’re my age,” Jo says.

“What the hell, when did that happen?” 

“People do grow up sometimes, Dean,” Jo says, raising her eyebrows. “You’re not pulling my leg, that was really Castiel Milton? Like, head-of-Theos-Milton-menswear Castiel Milton?” 

“Yeah, it really was,” Dean says. “So, now you can be a judgemental little shit.”

“Hmm,” Jo says, sitting back and sliding the card back to Dean. She looks like she’s thinking for a second, but Dean can tell she’s just acting. “What the hell do you want me to say? No, don’t go on a date with one of the heirs to the Milton empire, that’s a _terrible_ idea? Because that would be pretty much the exact opposite of the truth.” 

“He’s actually a cousin to the main branch, I think that negates the heir part.”

“Oh, whatever. He’s cute and has killer taste in suits, please hit that.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says, laughing.

\---

The flat is just as quiet at the end of the day as it was when he left in the morning. He stands awkwardly in the kitchen, spinning his keys on a finger, and decides to go back out. He’s afraid that if he stops moving he’s just going to get caught up in missing Sam like the sad sack he is. 

(Or dwelling on Cas. See aforementioned point re: sad sack.)

He knows he’s being dramatic. Sam’s gone off plenty on his own. Sometimes when they’re both in the same city they don’t even see each other, running on completely different schedules. There was one one June a few summers ago where the only time Dean saw Sam was when he was actually walking in Paris and Milan. 

He ends up on the bus, heading north. He sits on the top deck in the front, feet kicked up on the windowsill and hands in his pockets. The windows are fogged up, and he can see the ghosts of lines and shapes where people had drawn on them. 

The bus rounds Hyde Park, and he stares out into the dark for a while before pulling out his phone. When he fires up Instagram (which he’ll never admit to having, and if asked, will insist it’s just to stalk Rosie Huntington-Whiteley and Miranda Kerr) he’s not particularly shocked to see that it’s solidly fashion week crap. Considering he only follows models, a couple of designers, and Sam, it’s par for the course. 

He goes straight for Sam’s profile to find that the only thing he’s posted in the last 24 hours is from this morning. It’s a Starbucks cup sitting on a table at the airport with the caption _sad coffee_. 

“You loser,” Dean mutters to himself, shaking his head and smiling. He takes a photo of his feet, lit up by the misty glow of the city lights through the foggy windows, and posts it with _sad bus trip_. Sam’ll know it’s for him. 

He gets off in front of John Lewis, tucking his hands into his pockets and standing in the middle of the sidewalk. People flow around him, moving past without sparing him a glance. Oxford Street always makes him think of Times Square, the way that thousands of people can be sharing the same space and yet totally and utterly ignoring each other. Fittingly, he kind of hates both places. It’s a great street to be on when you’re trying to not think about much, though. 

His phone rings when he’s staring, slightly horrified, at the window display at River Island. 

“High street fashion makes me feel the need to shank someone,” he says. “Who designed this crap?”

“ _Hello to you too, Mr. First World Problems,_ ” Charlie says. “ _Where are you?_ ”

“Standing in front of a River Island and considering arson.” 

“ _Dean, walk away. It’s for the good of everyone. Go find an AllSaints and take deep, calming breaths._ ”

“Too late, I’m never going to get the image of torn and studded up jorts out of my head.”

“ _Your life is horrible. Speaking of, how’s life post-Sam?_ ”

“You’re a dick.”

“ _That awesome, huh? Sorry, that was kinda mean. Kinda. I’m in the passport control line from hell, I can’t be held responsible for what I say._ ” 

“I’m holding you responsible,” Dean says. “Don’t be a dick, Charlie.”

“ _Ah, but it’s so much fun,_ ” Charlie says, and then follows it up with a theatrically evil laugh. “ _No, but seriously, what did you do today?_ ”

“Not much. Fucked around with Jo, mostly.”

“ _Literal or figurative fucking?_ ”

“Figurative.”

“ _Oh, good, because I didn’t want to have to pick up the pieces if you’d decided to rebound onto Jo._ ”

“Dude, can we stop with the incest jokes?”

“ _Tell that to the internet. There are several blogs getting a kick out of your, and I quote, ‘break up instagrams’._ ”

“What the fuck?”

“ _Yeah, you guys throwing sad instagrams at each other has a couple bloggers making cracks about how you’ve broken up. It doesn’t help that you were evidently seen at a show today_ sans _Sam._ ”

“God, we really need separate lives.”

“ _I think that’s what Sam’s attempting to do at the mo, bro._ ”

Dean sighs, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. He knows, he really does. It’s just proving to be more difficult than originally planned. And it’s only been 24 hours. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, only half paying attention as he walks, staring at his feet. He bumps into someone, and when he looks up he almost expects to see Cas for some reason. Instead, it’s just some random guy in a suit. 

“ _Are you with anyone, or are you moping alone?_ ”

“I think you just answered your own question.” 

Charlie mutters something under her breath that Dean doesn’t quite catch, but he’s willing to bet she’s just done something like call him an idiot. 

“ _Go hang with someone, Dean. Don’t punish yourself by staring at horrible fashion alone._ ” 

“Jo’s busy.” 

“ _So? You have parents. And Kevin. And Bela._ ”

“Oh _hell_ no. You’re high if you think I’m going to go hang out with Bela.”

“ _Bummer, I was going to suggest you two go have angry sex, that always serves to straighten you out. … no pun intended._ ” Charlie snickers, and Dean rolls his eyes. 

“We haven’t done that in… a while,” Dean mutters. He doesn’t quantify that with ‘since last season’.

“ _Fine. Just… go chill with someone. Make friends at a pub, or something, and I’ll be in soon._ ” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

When he hangs up he stands on the corner for a second, staring around. It’s more of the same: a swirling mass of humanity weaving in and out of stores. Everything and everyone is nameless and faceless. He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, and when he opens them not a single goddamn thing has changed. 

“Nut the fuck up, Winchester,” he tells himself, and about-faces, heading down a side street and texting as he does. 

**Winchester, Dean**   
_plans tonight?_

**Tran, Kevin**   
_duh. i’ll find the address and text you._

\---

“Turn the light off,” Dean groans, rolling over onto his side and pulling the covers over his head. 

“It’s the sun, bellend.”

Dean’s eyes snap open only to find himself staring at a bedroom wall that is _way_ too familiar to him at this point. 

“Not again,” Dean moans. 

“Oh, yes, again,” Bela says. “Please tell me you remember at least some of last night, because that’s the best you’ve given in a while and I’d _hate_ for you to be missing out.” 

Dean actually does remember a decent amount. Including the argument about absolutely nothing that he and Bela had gotten into the previous evening. It’s the only way they can sleep together, they have to be angry at each other first. This particular time, it was snark-to-sass combat over Marchesa. How bitching at each other about over-use of trim and notions could lead to them making out like their lives depended on it in the back of a cab, he’s not sure he’s _ever_ going to figure out. 

(He also remembers possibly breaking a lamp and knocking down a shelf last night. Bela and he never really did get the hang of the whole ‘gently’ thing.)

“I’m not missing out,” Dean mutters, rolling over onto his back. For a moment everything is fine, and then a jolt of pain shoots down his spine. He hisses, arching off the sheets, and Bela laughs. “God, what did you do to my back?”

“Carpet burn,” Bela says pleasantly. Dean turns his head to glare at her. She just smiles sweetly back. 

“Don’t you have a collection to show?” Dean asks. 

“In five hours,” Bela says. “I’ve got time. Shower?” 

They end up fucking on the bathroom counter while the shower runs, steaming up the bathroom. Dean braces his hands against the mirror and Bela digs her heels and nails into his back, urging him on with absolute filth whispered straight into his ear. Her voice is breathy as she trails half-kisses across his jaw, and he ducks his head, rolling into her and making her gasp. 

“Come on, Dean,” she moans. “You’re skiving off.”

“Jesus,” Dean says through clenched teeth, bracing his feet wider. “Blow me.”

Bela laughs until he steals the sound out of her mouth, sealing their mouths together as he speeds up, catching her moans with his lips. When they do finally make it to the shower she pushes him down and he goes, the tile hard and cold against his knees but her body warm against his mouth. 

He’s left enough clothing here over the years that it’s not hard to put an outfit together from what’s at her flat. While she does her make-up -- she refuses to let anyone else do it, always goes into her shows with her own face and own outfit -- Dean hunts through things, coming up with a grey henley and a pair of ancient jeans that’ll work. He stops in front of the mirror, running a hand through his still damp hair and frowning at his reflection. He looks the same as he always does, despite the fact that he still feels off kilter. 

Bela comes in and passes behind him, dragging her fingertips across his shoulders as she goes. Dean turns to find her in a [simple black fit and flare](http://i.imgur.com/tLLTasq.png), still barefoot, although with her hair done up. When she grins at him over her shoulder it looks like there’s fire in her eyes. 

“The collection looks really good,” he says as she slips into a pair of [deep blue ankle boots](http://i.imgur.com/dp3EZiJ.png). 

“Of course it is, Jo and I designed it,” she says simply. “How do these boots look?”

“Would you listen to my opinion if I didn’t like them?”

“I’d think about it,” she says, smirking. 

“They look pretty badass,” Dean admits. 

“Good,” she says, coming to stand in front of the mirror with him. They make quite the pair, all sharp edges and structure, Bela’s perfectly done eyeliner and Dean’s dagger pendant. Bela cracks a razor-cut grin, slipping her arm through his. “We wear our armor quite well, don’t we?”

“We do,” Dean says. 

She turns to him, taking his head in her hands and giving him a long stare. When he starts to lean forward, somewhat against his better judgement, Bela surges in. The kiss is sharp and rough, focused and fierce, just like everything Bela does. 

It’s over just as fast as it’s started, and Bela reaches up, rubbing her thumb across his lips and scrubbing off the color he knows is there. When she’s done he licks his lips, tasting the traces of her lipstick and the salt on her skin. 

Bela pulls a wide red umbrella out of the stand by the door and they share it, Dean holding it while Bela answers texts and emails as they walk. It’s cold and damp, and Bela makes short work of muscling their way into hailing a cab. 

“How did the argument end?” Dean asks. Bela looks up from her phone as Dean raises a hand to the window, smearing a finger across the fogged up glass.

“Which one? There were several,” Bela says with a smirk. 

“About Marchesa,” Dean says. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“Honestly, I don’t remember much after you got in my face and we started making out,” Dean says. “Your dress _was_ pretty low cut.” 

Bela laughs, tossing her phone onto the seat next to her and stretching out to put her feet up in Dean’s lap. He wraps a hand around her ankle, rubbing circle into her skin with a rough thumb. 

“I’m not sure it really ended. You brought up Rodarte and it all went downhill,” Bela says. 

“In an argument about Marchesa? Jesus, how drunk was I?”

“Fairly pissed. I think it had something to do with last spring’s collection. You were off on a rather angry tangent about trim.” 

“Of fucking course I was,” Dean mutters. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t believe either of us won it.”

“Story of _all_ our arguments.” 

Bela leans forward, bracing herself on her outstretched legs and staring at him. 

“You’re off,” she says. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, rubbing his free hand across his jaw. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and his stubble is rough under his palm. 

“I know it’s useless to say cheer up,” Bela says. “But at least try to keep it together? I know you’re well aware of how to compartmentalize to a truly frightening degree.”

“Yeah right,” Dean says. “Everything with me bleeds into everything else.”

“Only on the surface,” Bela says, raising her eyebrows. 

Dean just sighs, going back to staring out the windows. Neither of them speak again until they’re out front of the Natural History museum, back under their bright red umbrella. When Bela turns to him her skin is bathed in the red light seeping through the material, catching in her eyes and hair. 

“Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak,” Bela says. “As an old friend used to say.”

Dean laughs, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face. 

“Get in there and kick it in the ass,” Dean says. 

“You as well,” Bela says, and takes his arm to lead him inside.


	5. Theos I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super sorry for the late update, real life got in the way in a big way. I'm going to post both chapters from this week right now, and then later today I think I'm going to post the last chapter as well so that I don't miss another update.

The minute Ellen sees him in the crush of people inside, she wraps him up in a hug, not letting him go until he’s laughing. People push past them, trying to find seats or go chat with people, but they ignore it all. 

“I wasn’t sure you were going to be here,” he says, hands on her shoulders. 

“Yep, came to collect my wayward kid,” Ellen says with a smile. “Although I’ve been told first I have to stare at some clothes.”

“You lead a tough life,” Dean says, grinning.

“Damn straight,” Ellen says. “You sitting next to me?”

“Yep,” Dean says, kicking at the bench next to them. “How’s business?”

“Same old, same old,” Ellen says. “I wanted to talk to you after your show, by the way, but you ran off with Sam. That was really something, kiddo.”

“Eh, mostly John,” Dean says, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Don’t feed me bullshit,” Ellen says, raising her eyebrows. “I know your print matching when I see it, and that whole back half had your hands all over it. It looked damn good.” 

“Sometimes I get something right,” Dean says, all sly smile. Ellen just rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah, a little more than sometimes,” Ellen says.

When Ellen gets pulled into another conversation Dean parks his ass, leaning on his thighs and trying to keep himself as contained as possible. He’s just a bit too on the tall side for shows (although he’ll never be as bad as Sam), and it requires a lot of watching where he’s kicking his feet and shoulders out to. 

When he pulls out his phone he’s kind of bummed to see that none of his texts or missed calls are from Sam. Not even an email. Except for a quick ‘ _landed_ ’ group text to the Winchesters at large yesterday, he hasn’t heard from him. 

He sighs, ignoring most of his emails (as far as he’s concerned, he’s on vacation for the next four days. He’ll deal with real life in Milan), and fires up Instagram instead. Sam’s at least posted on there, a picture of a street cat sleeping on a park bench in a spot of sun. Dean can’t help the small smile that sneaks across his lips -- Sam’s always had this soft spot for cats. They never had pets growing up, so he can’t figure out where it came from, but he’ll always stop to say hello to any cat he comes across. 

The picture is location tagged to Kadıköy, which means nothing to Dean, and he’s thinking about googling it when someone sits down to his right. When he looks up he finds Kevin. 

“You’re alive,” Kevin says. “We thought for a second there when Bela dragged you off that she was going to take you out back and shoot you.”

“She will one day,” Dean says. Kevin snorts out a laugh. 

“You two should try having sex sober and not-angry for once,” Kevin says. “It can be like a science experiment.”

“We have actually fucked sober,” Dean says, eyeing Kevin.

“But not-angry?”

“Possibly once. It’d call that time more ‘annoyed’ than ‘angry’.” Dean grins, all teeth, and Kevin rolls his eyes. 

“Well, I can’t hate,” Kevin says. “You make good models when you’re claws deep in each other.” 

(Kevin had roped them into modeling exactly once, and the spread that had come out of it was half stage combat, half choreography, and all the only damn time Dean will ever put himself in front of a camera lense for the purpose of an editorial. That’s Sam’s shit, not his.)

Ellen comes back right before the show starts, taking her spot on Dean’s other side. 

“It’s a good one,” he tells Ellen, and she smiles at him. 

“That’s Jo for you,” she says. Dean just nods, grinning, because that’s Jo and Bela and the only way they know how to do things: in totality and to perfection. 

\---

Dean sticks around just long enough to be presentable, posing for pictures with Jo and Bela and a handful of other people before slipping outside. The rain’s given up for the day, although the air is still misty and grey. The streetlamps glow, the light refracting off of the water in the air and hallowing them. 

He stands on the corner, tucked up against a sign post directing people to various museums, and pulls his cigarettes out of his back pocket. The sudden flare of flame warms his hands as he cups them together, the glow orange against his skin in the dark grey-blue air. 

When he pulls out his phone it’s nothing but more emails. Work’s waiting for him, and he knows it. He’s going to have to meet with a couple of people when he gets to Paris to discuss the upcoming resort collection. 

Last season John had handed the resort collection totally over to Dean. He’d been alright with it, although he’s never been the biggest fan of resort or pre-Fall anything. He’s going to have to do something to overhaul the whole idea if he’s going to stay interested enough to not turn out a whole collection of shit. 

His phone buzzes, and he holds his cigarette between his lips so that he can check it. He’s surprised when he sees who it’s from -- they had made plans, but Dean had half expected the whole Cas thing to be an exceptionally weird trip. 

**Cas Milton**   
_You ran off fast._

**Dean Winchester**   
_just outside_

**Cas Milton**   
_On the front steps?_

**Dean Winchester**   
_by boris bikes between v/a and nhm_

It takes him a few minutes, but Cas does appear around the corner. Dean takes the opportunity to just watch him for the first time in a long time. He looks pretty much exactly the same -- long controlled strides, shoulders stiff under his trench coat, hair windblown as ever. Whatever suit he’s got on today, Dean’s not sure. He’d seen him briefly during the show, sitting across the runway at at the far end, but he’d been too far away to quite get a read on what he was wearing. 

“You ever going to stop wearing that thing?” Dean asks when Cas stops in front of him, nodding to his coat. 

“I’m fairly certain Burberry trenches never go out,” Castiel says with a quiet smile. There’s a light on in the V&A right behind him, hallowing his head and making his hair glow. It makes something tighten in Dean’s chest. 

“Depends on who you ask,” Dean says. He takes one last drag and then flicks his cigarette away, grinding the burning embers into the wet pavement. “You still up for dinner?” 

“Of course,” Cas says. “Anything particular you want?”

“Food,” Dean says, and Cas laughs. Dean tries to hide his grin at the rough sound, but he can’t help it. Cas’ laugh is possibly his second favorite in the world, after Sam’s. 

“I’m sure we can manage that,” Cas says. He offers an arm, and Dean hesitates for a moment before taking it. What the hell, when in Rome, etc. 

They head back towards the Underground station, their footfalls muffled strangely in the claustrophobic air. Dean leans into Cas without really thinking about it, drawn to the warm body next to him. 

“I heard about Sam’s project,” Cas says. 

“Ugh, yeah,” Dean mutters. “I know that it’s awesome for him that Jess Moore wants to work with him specifically, but he’s going to be gone for a while.” 

“He’ll be back,” Cas says. It’s so simple that all Dean can do is sink his claws into it, clinging to the words. Sam’ll be back. 

“I know,” Dean says with a sigh. “Just not used to him being gone.” 

“It’s not easy. When we were younger, Anna went to work for a designer in Tokyo for a year. It was hard on us. But she came back. I think we both knew it wouldn’t be permanent.” 

Dean nods, watching Cas out of the corner of his eye. His voice is quiet, but there’s force behind it. 

“I know you get used to having that person at your right hand though,” Cas says after a moment, open and honest. 

“You really fucking do,” Dean murmurs. His voice is almost drowned out in the traffic speeding by, taxis and buses and delivery trucks. 

They end up at a burger place. It’s by no means fancy, but Dean’s been here a handful of times before with Sam and he knows the food is good. He hasn’t eaten much of anything all day, and a burger and fries sounds like heaven right about now.

“How did you like Belo?” Cas asks after they’ve ordered, broaching another safe topic. When they’d first met it had been nothing but idle chatter about various designers (Cas is only one of two people in the world who know about Dean’s stupid, ridiculous crush on Olivier Rousteing). It wasn’t until late in the season that they’d ended up talking about other shit, usually their families. Cas has a big screwed up family, Dean has a small one, they’d had a lot to talk about. 

“It was awesome,” Dean says. “I mean, Jo and Bela really know their shit. I know everyone was worried about them working together, but they’ve done some great stuff.” 

“They have,” Cas says. “I really liked this one. Hopefully people agree, they’re incredibly talented.” 

“Don’t let them hear that,” Dean says. “They don’t need their egos fed.”

Cas laughs, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. It’s impossibly messy, the only thing about him that’s not done up perfectly. The sensory memory of what that hair feels like under his hands hits him hard enough that he has to look away for a moment, frowning at the wall. If Cas catches it, he doesn’t ask. 

“I don’t know about Joanna,” Castiel says. “But I’ll agree with you about Bela.”

Dean knows that Bela has ties to the Miltons, but he’s never actually thought to ask how. Cas’ side of the family is English, Dean just assumed it was because the Talbots and the Miltons were the same kind of old money that ran together. 

“Yeah, what happened there, how do you know her?” 

“She and Bela dated for years before breaking up when they graduated university.” 

Dean is extremely glad he’s not drinking anything, because it would have just ended up sprayed all over the table. 

“Excuse me?!” Dean says, jaw unhinged. “You never told me that!” 

“I always thought Bela had told you,” Castiel frowns. “I thought you were good friends.”

“Oh, we’re something,” Dean says. “But evidently not good enough somethings for her to have mentioned that.” 

(Dean makes a mental note to send Bela an angry text later.) 

“Anna was the one who got Bela into fashion,” Castiel says. “And it’s not like they hate each other, they’re just not as close as they used to be.”

“Wow,” Dean says. “The shit that you have no idea about.” 

“Bela’s a private person,” Castiel says. “She doesn’t let much out.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Dean mutters. 

The rest of dinner passes without any other earth-shattering revelations. It also passes incredibly normally, friendly and comfortably, even. Dean manages to get Cas laughing a few more times, his usual fierce stoicness cracking and his eyes shining, and Dean just hangs on, trying to tamp down on what he’s feeling as much as possible. When they part ways at the end of the night it’s easy smiles and loose-limbed closeness, and Dean realizes for maybe the first time that it wasn’t just Cas he hadn’t talked to in two years, it was a friend. 

\---

He does Erdem and Burberry Prorsum with Charlie, Jo and Bela the next day, and by the time the last show rolls around -- Tom Ford -- he’s starting to hit a jet lag wall. It always takes a few days, but he never quite manages to get out from under it. He doesn’t have the luxury of crashing for 24 hours like he really needs to though, so instead the four of them end up at Bela’s with coffee and a few bottles of wine. He tries to weddle the Anna story out of her, but she expertly deflects it each time. 

“Your mobile’s ringing,” Bela tells him the last time he tries asking. He leans his head back, looking up at Bela where she’s standing behind the couch and waving his phone back and forth. He focuses on the phone with some effort, and then nearly sends himself ass-over-teakettle swiping the phone out of her hand when he sees who’s calling. 

“Must be his new boyfriend,” Jo says, raising her eyebrows as Dean tumbles off the sofa, heading for the balcony. He weaves a bit, his hands shaking as he pulls the door open at the same time that he answers the phone. 

“Wait, boyfriend?” He can hear Charlie say just as he kicks the door shut behind him. The cold against his bare arms is a jolt. 

“Hey,” he breathes the minute he holds the phone up to his ear. 

“ _I know it’s late_ ,” Sam says. Dean inhales as Sam speaks, drawing his voice in. It’s only been a few days, but god, he feels those few days. 

“Mmm, not a problem, Sammy. Long time no chat.” His lips are buzzing, and he rubs his fingers against them, lazy and too-fast all at once. 

“ _Dude, I know. Jess is keeping me busy. She’s got me_ journaling.”

Dean laughs, leaning against the wall of the balcony and staring down at the street below. 

“That’s girly, man,” Dean says. “‘Dear diary, today I had a massive crush on this photographer with this amazing rack and--’”

“ _Shut up, jerkface,_ ” Sam says, but there’s no heat in his voice. It’s all smooth vowels, the way he gets when he’s tired. Dean can picture him, laid on on his back in bed, phone held lazily in one giant hand. “ _It’s actually cool stuff. I hung out with an actual armed guard at an actual palace today, it was pretty sweet._ ” 

“Did he let you touch his rifle?” Dean says. He laughs at himself, swaying against the brick and closing his eyes. Lights glow beyond his eyelids, and he listens to Sam’s derisive snort cut through the hum of traffic down below. 

“ _Whatever,_ ” Sam says. “ _You’re totally drunk, aren’t you?_ ”

“Mildly,” Dean says. “I’ll be sober in like… half an hour.” 

“ _What, you drinking appletinis?_ ”

“Wine,” Dean says, drawing the word out and drumming his fingers on the stone under his hands. “Bela’s orders.” 

“ _Hanging out with Bela again, are we?_ ”

“Fucking Bela again, technically.”

(Dean knows from experience that Sam is rolling his eyes right about now.)

“ _Man, I can’t leave you alone for three seconds, can I?_ ”

“Nope. See what happens when you leave? I end up with my own sloppy seconds.”

“ _Dude,_ your _sloppy seconds? You’re_ Bela’s _sloppy seconds._ ”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side, little bro.”

“ _Sorry, Bela has better taste in shoes._ ”

“ _Bitch._ Holy shit, you did _not_ just say that. I can’t believe you just said that.”

Sam is laughing, full out, and Dean smiles at the sound, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers stilling on his still buzzing lips once more. 

“ _That’s why you love me,_ ” Sam says. “ _How was Belo?_ ”

“Excellent.” His tongue trips over the word a little bit. “When are they not? I mean, god, they’re talented. Sammy, the way they worked this perfect, bright red in… you should have seen it. Pictures are up, right? You’ve seen those?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Sam says, and his voice is quieter now. “ _I’m sorry I missed it. You can’t tell how shit moves when it’s just online._ ”

“Nah,” Dean says. “You really can’t. There were a coupl’a pieces that shouldn’t have moved like they did, but they were just… it was awesome.”

“ _I’ll trust you on that._ ”

“Dude, what are you even up to?” Dean asks. “I know nothing.”

“ _Isn’t that the truth,_ ” Sam teases. 

“Dick.”

“ _Walked into that one,_ ” Sam says. “ _Umm, what am I up to? A lot of sightseeing. A lot of eating. Man, you would love the food here. You should really visit at some point._ ”

“You’ll take me there one day,” Dean says, voice soft. He opens his eyes finally and stares at the cars on the street below for a moment before turning his back. He slides down the low wall, sitting with his back to the cool bricks. He can see Bela and Jo through a gap in the gauzy curtains hanging over the door. They’re both golden in the lamp light, Jo’s hair molten and Bela’s eyes sharp. 

“ _We’ll come back, together,_ ” Sam says. It sounds like a promise. “ _There’s this Roman lighthouse out in the straight through the middle of the city that’s super cool._ ”

“Sounds like it,” Dean says, tipping his head back. They’re both quiet for a moment, just listening to the other breathe, and Dean wonders exactly where Sam is. In a hotel somewhere, or maybe in an apartment, knowing Jess’ usual MO. She’s all about immersion, has friends scattered everywhere, from what he remembers reading about her. 

A memory curls into his mind, of him and Sam staying at a hostel in Milan. There had been a roof terrace, small lanterns in a million brilliant colors strung between the plants and the roof. They had both managed to fit in one hammock, shoulders and knees knocking when they passed a shared beer back and forth. God, they’d been young enough to be earnest, although Dean was already working on a pair of jade-colored glasses. Sam had been _maybe_ 16, and they’d taken the summer to backpack across Europe, seeing all the cities they’d never actually seen before. They’d stopped in Milan because that was always going to be a stop, no matter where they were going. 

London might feel the most like home, outside of New York, but Milan will always feel like an adventure. Dean knows Sam feels the same way. 

“ _Did you ever meet up with Castiel?_ ” Sam asks. He sounds like he’s in the process of drifting off to sleep. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing a palm against the rough fabric of his pants and anchoring himself to the feeling, to the here and now, away from hammocks and lanterns and Sam’s earnest grin. “We did dinner.”

“ _And…?_ ” 

“That was it.” 

“ _Holy crap, are you feeling ok?_ ”

“Har har, yes. I’m not gonna jump on some dude’s dick when I was with Bela 12 hours before hand.” Or before Dean can parse out exactly what they are to each other. 

“ _Hello, mental image I will_ never _get rid of._ ”

Dean rumbles out a laugh, looking at the path of his palm over his thigh with sluggish focus. The coffee buzz is starting to leach out of his veins, replaced by the lazy drag of his last glass of wine. 

“I like him,” Dean says quietly. It’s not something he likes to admit to himself, that maybe he got a bit wrecked on Cas in the span of a few short weeks and didn’t ever quite know how to deal with it. He’s not even sure why he’s telling Sam, but there it is. 

“ _That’s big,_ ” Sam says. 

“Maybe not yet,” Dean says, backpedaling. “I’ll tell you if it gets big.”

“ _You do that,_ ” Sam says. A yawn swallows his last word, and Dean smiles to himself, his hand stilling. 

“You should sleep, Sammy,” Dean says. 

“ _You should too,_ ” Sam says. “ _Treat yourself, for once._ ”

“Maybe.”

“ _Fine, get some sleep for me._ ”

Dean bops his head in a little nod, and when Sam yawns again he laughs. 

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Dean says. 

“ _Yeah, yeah,_ ” Sam says, and then, “ _I miss you._ ”

“I miss you too,” Dean says. Down the line, a thousand miles and more away, Sam sighs. It’s a warm and content sound, sleepy and drawn out, and Dean wraps himself in it, shielding himself from the cold air that’s settled against his skin, and for the first time feels like maybe they can do this.

\---

Things start winding down the next day the way they always do, and he and Charlie skip going to any shows, choosing instead to sleep in. The house feels strange and empty without Sam, even with his parents there, and he ends up crashing with Charlie at her hotel instead. 

He wakes up with his mouth feeling like the desert and a dull throb right behind his eyes. He groans, nosing a bit further into his pillow and letting one his arms slip off the bed, knuckles grazing the carpet. He’s felt way worse before, but he’s also just _tired_. 

“I’ve been trying to move for the last twenty minutes,” Charlie croaks. “I should never attempt to keep up with the three of you ever again.”

“If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Dean yawns. “But in your defense you’re going up against the Iron Liver Squad.” 

“I’m enjoying my life of not dying of cirrhosis by age 40,” Charlie says. The sheets rustle, and Dean turns his face just enough to crack open one eye. All he can see is a mop of red hair sticking every which way. 

“Boring,” Dean says. “Learn to live a little, Char.”

“I think technically I am,” Charlie says. “YOLO and all that.”

“Are you still drunk?”

“God, I wish.” 

Charlie does manage to eventually extract herself from the bed to stumble to the bathroom. Dean listens to the sound of the shower against the tile for a bit before hefting himself up onto his elbows and scrubbing at his face. He blinks at the headboard a few times, forcing his vision to clear, and then throws a hand out for the nightstand, praying that his phone actually made it there last night. He curls back up under the covers when he finds it, having no interesting in being a part of the world yet. There’s a text from Sam waiting, sent a couple of hours prior. 

**Sam**   
_so how drunk r u_

**Dean**   
_sadly nt at all_

He assumes he’s going to have to wait to hear back from Sam, but he gets a text back almost immediately. 

**Sam**   
_asprin water and a banana_

**Dean**   
_thnks mom_

**Sam**   
_pretty sure i learned that from u_

Dean smiles at the phone before deciding to try to get up. It takes him some time, but eventually he’s got his feet on the ground. 

He locates his coat, wallet, and shirt before banging on the bathroom door. 

“You still alive in there?” Dean asks. Charlie groans in response, and Dean grins. “I’ll see you in Milan. Hang in there, Princess Charming.”

“I’m flipping you off right now,” Charlie yells back over the sound of the water. “You just can’t see it.”

Dean heads out the door laughing and shaking his head. 

When he gets outside he’s incredibly happy for the dreary weather, because it means he doesn’t have to deal with any horrible sun-in-face type situations. The sky is nothing but smudged over grey clouds. He heads for Canon Street, stopping just long enough to grab a bottle of water and a banana from a newsagent before heading down into the Underground. 

Mary and John are both eating lunch when he gets back to the house. Dean has to step over their already packed bags at the base of the stairs, and John just raises his eyebrows at Dean when he rolls in looking like yesterday’s trash. 

“I’ll be ready to go,” he promises, not even bothering to stop. He stopped justifying himself to his parents a long ass time ago. 

He’s never been big on unpacking when he’s traveling, so he doesn’t have much to toss back into his duffle. He figures he should take a shower, but he’s just going to end up feeling airplane-clammy and sick in a few hours, so instead he sticks his head under the tap, gritting his teeth against the cold water, and changes into clean clothes. By the time he’s made one last circuit of his room he’s still got an hour until they have to leave. 

He sits down at the foot of the bed, back to the frame and legs kicked out on the carpet, and checks his phone. Nada. 

He sighs, letting his head fall back onto the mattress, and stares at the ceiling. Sam had stuck glow in the dark stars up in every single apartment when he was a kid, and one of them is still in the corner, long forgotten. Dean grins at it, the last survivor of Sam’s astronomy phase. 

A knock at the door startles him, and he whips his head up fast enough to give himself a headrush. 

“Your mom told me to come talk to you,” John says. He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. 

“About what?” Dean asks, resting back against the bed. 

“She said you’re running yourself into the ground,” John says. “Although I don’t know how much good it would do to tell you to stop.”

“Probably not a lot,” Dean says. 

“You can’t run away from not having Sam,” John says. Dean purses his lips before staring back up at the corner with the dusty star. 

“I’m just tired,” Dean says. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we kind of had that whole collection thing to do and get out.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” John says, frowning. 

“Kinda my default.”

John sighs, scratching at the corner of his jaw, fingers rough over stubble. 

“You’re not being an idiot, are you? Staying out all night?”

“It’s fine, I was with Charlie,” Dean says. “And you’re pretty much the last person to get on me about being hungover.”

“Try not to corrupt your coordinator,” John says. “She’s the only thing keeping you on schedule.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. You can tell mom I’m fine and/or getting over it. She doesn’t need to worry. I’m not a kid anymore.”

John huffs out a humorless laugh before kicking away from the door frame, standing up straight. He turns to leave before looking back at Dean for a minute. 

“We know you’re not,” he tells him. “Just don’t go around acting like it.”

Dean breathes out through his nose, eyes hooded as John vanishes down the hallway.


	6. Theos II

It feels wrong to do Milan with anyone besides Sam, but he figures he can ease into getting used to it. He sits with Charlie at Dsquared2, and she keeps casting little glances his way. He just shrugs, concentrating on the over-produced drag show that Dsquared2 always is (this time with added jazz hands), and she reaches out to hook her thumb into one of the rips in his jeans. She’s not the most tactile person, and he tries to relax a bit after that. If he’s projecting enough to freak her out, he’s projecting a whole hell of a lot. 

He manages to last through Gucci’s salute to 70s urban fantasy and dark palettes before the noise in his head starts to get overpowering. In addition to everything else that’s buzzing under his skin, now that his self-imposed vacation is over, it’s like a switch has been flipped and he needs to _work_. 

“Every time I see them together, I assume Franca and Anna are plotting to take over the world,” Charlie muses after the show, staring off in the direction of the two in question. They’re surrounded by a mob of people, and Dean can only tell it’s them via trademark hairstyles. 

“I’m pretty sure they already did that,” Dean says. “Hey, I’m going to take off, is that ok?”

“I know that look,” Charlie says, smiling at him. “Go get shit done.”

“Catch up with you tomorrow?” 

“It’s a muthereffin’ plan.” 

Piazza Oberdan is a mess of bodies and cars, and Dean navigates his way through the throng as fast as possible, heading off down a side street at the first chance. It takes him a few tries, but he eventually finds a cafe that isn’t totally swamped and actually has some free seating. It’s a small little place, narrow with high ceilings, but it’s done up in warm wood and bright lights. 

As soon as he’s settled in with coffee he fishes his moleskine and a pencil out of his jacket and flips to a free page. He’s has to flip through the sketches and notes from the collection they just showed, and he leaves a blank page between the two sections. He needs a clean break from a lot of things right now, and as ridiculous as it is, the physical representation of that blank page feels good. 

He spend a good hour reading up on a whole mish-mash of things on his phone -- music festivals, American folklore, road trips, blue jeans and Converse. There’s no way in hell he’s turning out another pedestrian, vaguely European resort collections. That’s just not their style. 

He scribbles down notes as he goes, filling up a good few pages that way. His handwriting sprawls across the paper, taking up just as much space as it needs to, curving around quick doodles in a few places. 

When his phone actually rings he’s caught off guard and ends up staring down at it, blinking in confusion for a moment.

“Hey,” he says when he finally gets around to answering it. 

“ _Hello, Dean._ ” As always, Cas’ voice is scratchy and worn. “ _I was wondering if you were free at the moment._ ”

“Yep,” Dean says. “I’m pretty much done for the day.”

“ _Would you like to meet for coffee?_ ”

“I’m actually currently mid-way through a coffee,” Dean says with a laugh. “Depending on where you are, you can come meet me.”

“ _I’m just off of Piazza Oberdan,_ ” Cas says. 

“Perfect,” Dean says. 

Cas shows up when Dean’s midway through scrawling down notes about ghost stories. He’s not planning on using any of it, necessarily, but he’s finding it a lot of fun to read about. 

Cas slips into the other chair at the table while Dean finishes writing, and when Dean looks up Cas is watching him, curious and intense. Dean squirms a bit, never quite used to be under that gaze. 

“Something on my face?” Dean asks.

“Freckles,” Cas says, raising his eyebrows, and Dean laughs. Cas has had a thing for his freckles since day one. 

“Yeah, can’t take those off,” Dean says. “Were you at Gucci?” 

“I was. I got held up afterwards by family business.”

“Man, you guys sound like the mob. Which, I guess, you could actually have ties to.”

Cas just gives Dean a look out of the corner of his eye, head tilted slightly. Dean shakes his head, smirking. 

“What are you working on?” Cas asks

“Nothing really, at the moment,” Dean says, flipping his moleskine closed. “I got on kind of a wiki-walk and ended up reading about ghosts.”

“Campfire stories.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Bedtime stories, more like. My mom used to tell Sam and I scary stories when other kids got _Goodnight Moon_ type shit.”

“I feel like that’s a bad idea when you’re trying to put children to sleep.”

“When you grow up listening to them, it’s different.”

“Maybe,” Cas hedges.

“Hey, uh, so,” Dean says. “I’m probably going to regret asking this, but why now?”

“Why now what?” Cas asks, head tipped to the side. 

“Why start talking to me again now?”

Cas is silent and Dean stares past his shoulder, out at the street, avoiding his eyes. The late afternoon light is warm as it passes across the brick and cobbles, the sun sinking and painting the world gold. 

“I spent a very long time trying to not think about you,” Cas says finally, voice quieter than usual. “Seeing you on the street was like a dam breaking.”

Dean sucks in a quick breath, eyes darting back to Cas’ face. He’s staring back, not letting Dean out of his one. 

“But we were just… we weren’t anything to each other,” Dean says. _Coward_ a voice whispers at the back of his head. 

“I have a feeling we both know that’s not true,” Cas says. 

“How could you know that?” Dean asks, frowning. 

“You wear your heart and everything that pours out of it right on your sleeve,” Castiel says. He says it like it’s the simplest thing on the planet, and Dean has to take a deep breath, feeling like he’s just been punched. “And I know myself.” 

“I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve,” Dean says, because that’s what’s easiest to concentrate on right now. 

“Not for most people,” Cas says. “With almost everyone you play things extremely close to the chest. But you let me get to know you.”

Dean sits back, crossing his arms. When he’d left, when he’d put everything away in nice neat mental boxes that said _CASTIEL MILTON - DO NOT OPEN_ , he’d done so because he had thought they both felt similarly. 

“Why that night on the street?” Cas says. “Because you made me stop. I don’t stop for many people.” 

It takes Dean a moment to realize that Cas is answering his earlier question. Dean licks his lips and gives a little nod. He thinks about rebuking it, laughing it off, pushing it down, but he can’t. Instead, he meets Cas’ gaze, and starts opening some of those boxes in his head. 

\---

Cas’ apartment has changed as little as Cas has. It’s still a little bit spartan, but lived in just enough. The small kitchen is still dominated by a cappuccino maker (Dean had tried to cook over here once only to discover that the only kitchen supplies Cas owns are directly related to caffeine and reheating leftovers), and there are still far more books than anything else. 

The sounds of Centrale drift in just as much as Dean remembers. He’s lived his whole life in big cities, and he gets creeped out when things get too silent. Cas’ apartment is at the back of the building, opening onto a central courtyard, but it’s just loud enough. 

Cas dumps his trench over the desk chair, waking the computer up to check something while Dean runs his hands along the tile of the kitchen counter. He stands at the end of the island and stares up at the beams in the ceiling, dark wood standing out against the whitewashed ceiling. 

“I’m glad to see you haven’t changed your kitchen ways,” Dean says, leaning on the counter and grinning when Cas looks up. “I’m still amazed you haven’t starved to death.”

“There are restaurants all over his neighborhood,” Cas says. “I eat out.”

“Must be nice to be rich,” Dean says. Cas raises his eyebrows at Dean, and Dean just smirks. “One day, I’m teaching you to cook. You live a block from one of my favorite farmers markets in the world, you gotta take advantage of that shit.” 

“Farmers markets are all mostly the same,” Cas says. Dean sighs, throwing his arms up. 

“How many of them are in central Milan?” Dean asks. 

“Well, a few, technically,” Cas says. Dean can see the hint of a smirk under his neutral expression, and Dean knows that Cas is just doing this to lead him on and push his buttons. Cas is a lot less clueless than he lets on. 

“Whatever,” Dean says, laughing. “Think we can get pizza delivered?”

“There might be a pizza place or two around,” Cas says. He’s got this sly little grin going on, and Dean is struck by a sudden need to reach out for him, to capture the expression in a kiss. 

Dean licks his lips and turns away instead, shrugging out of his jacket as he heads for the couch. 

“Not your usual style,” Cas notes as Dean tosses the coat over the back of the couch as he sits down. When Dean looks up at him Cas is still smirking. It takes Dean a couple of seconds to make the connection. 

“Oh, go ahead, make the fucking joke,” Dean grouses, working on pulling his boots off. 

“You must really love the man to voluntarily wear something peacoat-esque,” Cas says. “Should I be worried about you developing a sudden love of overly embellished mini dresses?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dean says, flopping backwards and spreading his arms over the back of the couch. “Not even Olivier could get me to do that.” 

Dean watches as Cas takes off his suit jacket, carefully putting it over top of his trench. Dean’s seen that coat get thrown around a lot, and he gets the feeling that it’s older and more well loved than most of Cas’ suits. Cas walks over to Dean as he rolls up his sleeves, eyes never leaving Dean’s face. Without really thinking about it Dean lets his knees fall open, lets Cas come to a standstill between his legs. Cas has never been particularly big on personal space. 

“I’m not sure anyone could make you do anything,” Cas says, and his voice is rougher than usual, “that you didn’t want to do.”

Dean licks his lips and swallows hard, gaze still fixed upwards on Cas, the angle strange. He’s not used to being shorter than Cas. 

“You sure about that?” Dean says, and his voice is just as cut to hell as Cas’ is. 

“Positive,” Cas says. 

Dean kicks out his feet so that Cas is fully bracketed by his legs as Cas starts pulling his tie off. When he wraps it up around his hand and then tosses it into the chair next to them Dean has just enough time to catch a telltale orange square on the back. 

“You’re a bit hard on the merchandise,” Dean says. 

“It’s from the 80s,” Cas says, and Dean lets his head tip back, laughing. 

“Trust you to still have ties from the goddamn 80s,” Dean says, grinning up at Cas. 

“Anna claims it’s ‘vintage’ now,” Cas says. Dean gets the feeling that if Cas were an eye-roller, he’d be doing a lot of ocular rolling right about now. “I just think it still goes with the suit.” 

“It does,” Dean says. 

Cas keeps on staring down at him, and Dean keeps his chin tilted up. Cas’ eyes are dark, a storm at sea, and Dean is having a tough time looking away. For a moment he’s not sure if he trusts himself to go down this road again, and then he reaches out to hook a hand around the back of Cas’ leg, drawing him in. 

Cas takes the last step, knees bumping into the couch as he tips forward, catching himself on the back of the couch. They meet in the middle, just a little bit too fast, noses in the way. Dean huffs out a little laugh and Cas smiles against his mouth before he climbs into Dean’s lap, straddling his thighs. 

It’s strange to be back here, under Cas’ hands and lips, sense memory swimming in Dean’s mind, but it also feels a little bit like a homecoming. Dean opens up to it, pulls Cas in, lets him fall into him. He gets Cas’ shirt untucked, slipping his palms up Cas’ sides as he works at his mouth, catching each and every last little sound that Cas is making. 

“I mi--” Cas pulls back, starts to say something, and then shakes his head before surging back in. Dean tips his head back further, lets Cas bite at his lips and suck kisses into his jaw, his neck. 

“You what?” Dean gasps, slipping his hands further around Cas so that he can pull him in even closer. 

“Not important,” Cas rasps. He pulls back to get Dean’s shirt off, and sits back for a moment, lips red and fingers tracing patterns across Dean’s skin. He stills over Dean’s tattoo, inked over his heart, and he realizes that Cas has never seen it before. Cas presses his thumb into the Hebrew, almost curiously. 

“Shemu'el,” Dean translates, trying to catch his breath. 

“What does Sam have?” Cas says. Dean’s not surprised that he’s made the connection, Dean had explained where John got the name for the line when they had first met. 

“X,” Dean says. 

“Fitting,” Cas says, something almost reverent in his voice, and he bends to press a kiss to the ink on Dean’s skin. 

Cas works his way down Dean’s chest, slow and concentrated, teeth and lips and hands. Dean feels like he’s being taken apart, taken out of his skin, and he rolls his hips up against Cas, languid and shattered. 

Cas makes a noise low in throat, hands on Dean’s hips, before he sits back up. Dean blinks at him, almost dizzy with everything, and then Cas leans in to kiss him again, so gently that Dean has to bring his hands up to cup Cas’ face and hold him there. 

\---

When Dean wakes up it’s still almost dark, hazy blue first light seeping through the curtains. Cas and he are curled together, limbs and blankets everywhere, and Dean wishes he were still sleep-drunk enough to want to stay here, in this warmth. Instead though, his mind is going a million miles an hour, ideas shaken loose and vibrating around, under his skin. 

He slips out of bed, careful not to wake Cas, and stops just long enough to pull on underwear and grab his phone before he wanders into the living room. His coat had gotten knocked off the couch at some point, and in the pre-dawn light it’s hidden in the shadows behind the couch and the wall. He gropes around for a minute before coming up with his moleskine and a pencil. 

He leaves his coat back on the couch and sits at the island, flipping to a blank page. There’s just enough light to work in, and he faces the windows, letting the soft light scatter across the paper. 

It’s easy to just go, sketch after sketch, almost on autopilot. He thinks about the little things that had jumped out at him yesterday -- hipster summer slouch, the heavier materials of middle America, the washed out neutrals of his own childhood. The ghost stories and monster tales sit at the back of his mind, spectral and glowing, and he knows they’re guiding some of what he’s drawing, in the abstract. 

They’re all messy, half-cocked, but it’s early still. He’s got months, and he knows that something will come out of all of this. When he’s filled a decent number of pages up with sketches and mess he taps his pencil against the page and reaches for his phone, arms slow like he’s surfacing from swimming for too long. 

It’s still too early to be awake, but he knows he’s not going to be able to fall asleep. He wrestles the coffee maker into working for him, and while that stews he digs his cigarettes out of his jacket. 

He opens the top half of the barn door that opens out into the courtyard and sets his mug and phone on the lip before lighting up, the flame a twisting orange light in the soft dawn light. He runs a hand through his hair and shifts his weight, one of his hips sore. He’s pretty sure he slammed it into something last night on the way to Cas’ bed. 

He grins to himself as he checks his phone, enjoying the pull of his muscles. He had half expected sleeping with Cas to open a flood gate of freakout, but instead he’s eased right back into this space he had cut out for himself in Cas’ life years before, and Cas had let him in just as easily as the first time. There’s still some worry at the base of his skull, the _ifs_ and _whens_ , but he’s alright right now. 

Aside from a (presumably drunk) snapchat from Jo of what looks suspiciously like someone’s cleavage (not Jo’s, thank god, whoever belongs to this rack is seriously stacked), and the usual pile of emails, the only other thing he has is a text from Sam. 

**Sam**  
 _ok so maybe i do like jess and maybe this is going to make this trip weird_

Dean smirks, holding his cigarette in his mouth so that he can type with both hands. 

**Dean**  
 _could have told you that bb bro. just dont let it be awk, problem solved._

He’s pleasantly surprised when the coffee turns out to be alright -- Cas’ cappuccino maker is stupidly complicated -- and he sips at the hilariously small mug while he watches the early morning sunlight start to slip into the courtyard while he waits for Sam to text him back. He’s willing to bet the intrepid explorers are already up and at ‘em, Jess strikes him as the kind of person who likes to get moving early. 

Sure enough, Sam’s text comes through a few minutes later. 

**Sam**  
 _‘do not let be awk’ is the worst advice ever, fyi. how does one even do that? and why are you up at the asscrack of dawn?_

**Dean**  
 _idk man, its diff for everyone. and because design shit._

**Sam**  
 _i say again: worst. advice. ever. you need to learn to let inspiration strike at normal hours of the day._

**Dean**  
 _my process is not an exact science. and just go for it, why not?_

**Sam**  
 _because i’m with her for the next four months?_

**Dean**  
 _could be 4 months of bendy sex_

**Sam**  
 _thank you you’ve been helpful_

**Dean**  
 _i appreciate the amount of sarcasm u can convey via text. really impressive_

**Sam**  
 _i do try_

**Dean**  
 _if you really like her then let her know._

The sound of a door opening gets Dean to look up. Cas is standing in the doorway to the bedroom, silhouetted by the east facing windows on the far wall. He’s sleep tussled and warm, eyes hooded and hair an absolute disaster. 

“Hey,” Dean says, voice rough from last night. 

“You weren’t in bed,” Cas says. He makes his way over to Dean, nuzzling into his shoulder, and Dean grins, turning a bit so that Cas can tuck himself into Dean’s side. Dean hooks his hand into the back pocket of the jeans that Cas is wearing. They’re riding incredibly low on his hips, and when Dean looks down at them he realizes that they’re actually his. 

“Ended up sketching,” Dean says as Cas steals his coffee. He makes an appreciative noise, low and rumbling, and holds the mug in both hands like a lifeline. 

“Resort?” Cas asks, and Dean nods. 

Cas slips out from under Dean’s arm to flip back through the last few pages of Dean’s moleskine where he’s left it open on the island. 

“Reminds me of summer nights spent sneaking out,” Cas says. 

“I’ll take it,” Dean says with a grin. “You snuck out, really?”

“Anna and I were horribly behaved teenagers,” Cas says, finishing off the coffee and then coming to stand behind Dean, wrapping his arms around his waist and kissing Dean’s shoulder. Dean leans back into him, enjoying the warmth that Cas is radiating. 

“I can’t really see that,” Dean says. 

“We were smart mouthed trouble-makers,” Cas says, and there’s sleepy amusement in his voice. “Why do you think we ended up at boarding school?” 

“Because your family are rich assholes and that’s what you guys do?” 

“Well yes,” Cas says, laughing a bit and resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder. “But partially it was because we were essentially kicked out of the house.”

“That’s tough.”

“Mmm, I don’t know. Anna met Bela there, and it was easier for us. We were never going to be very good at listening to our parents. As long as we were together it was fine.”

“I know how that goes,” Dean says, ducking his head a bit and grinning. 

They stay pressed together, Dean leaning on the door and Cas with his head turned into Dean’s neck, until the sun crests over the roof and spills light across the grass and walkways. 

\---

He doesn’t see Cas a lot during the day for the rest of the week. Milan is his turf, and these are his people. He sits with Anna (and occasionally Gabriel) at shows, usually away from Dean and Charlie, and so Dean spends most of the week with Charlie. They explore narrow streets, race around on the Metro, and never quite end up lost because Dean knows the city pretty well at this point. 

At night, however, when the city sinks into darkness and the streetlamps cast light across the ancient stone, he finds himself at Cas’. It’s a repeat of what they were doing before, talking and drinking, smoking and fucking. Cas has a bit of a hedonist streak that Dean is plenty happy to indulge. 

The night before the Theos Milton show and before they both have to get to Paris, Cas brings out a bottle of honest to god Petrus. Dean’s sitting on the floor, markers and pens spread out across the coffee table, and he looks up from his notebook when Cas sets the bottle down by his elbow. 

“Holy fuck.” Dean laughs, picking up the bottle and reading the label. “This is _so_ wasted on me, just so you know.”

“Not a wine person?” Cas grins and sits down on the couch, kicking out a foot so that Dean can lean into his leg. 

“Look at me, man,” Dean says. “The fanciest I get is whiskey.” 

“Well, if you trust me, know that it’s excellent,” Cas says. 

“I do,” Dean says, setting the bottle back down. “What are we celebrating?” 

“Absolutely nothing,” Cas says. “It was a gift, and Anna didn’t want it, so I ended up with it.” 

“I’m down with that,” Dean says. 

Dean wasn’t raised in a barn, so he at least has some grip on what’s good versus shitty when it comes to wine, but he’s not sure if this is just normal good or _awesome_. He’ll trust Cas on this one though, because he can at least tell that this is on the far end of the scale from shitty. 

He sits between Cas’ legs, moleskine in his lap and glass by his knee, and listens to Cas as he tells Dean about the collection. Cas doesn’t have anything to do with any of the womenswear lines, but he still knows what’s going on. Evidently Michael and Lucifer have gone all out on this one, and Cas even sounds somewhat impressed. He’s not the biggest fan of a few of his cousins, Dean remembers, but he’s also one to admit when something’s good. 

“By the way,” Cas says, running a hand through Dean’s hair, “I had Samandriel move you and Charlie.”

“Sitting with you guys?” Dean asks, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. 

“Do you mind?” Cas asks. Dean shakes his head and listens as Cas puts his wine glass down. Cas takes his face in his hands, and when he opens his eyes Cas is leaning over him, looking at Dean with such intensity that Dean wants to look away but can’t quite do it. Cas kisses his forehead, reverent, and Dean closes his eyes again, lips parted. 

“Something on my face?” Dean murmurs, and he can feel Cas grin against his skin. 

“Freckles.” An echo. 

Dean shifts, turning towards Cas, and Cas bends down so that he can scatter kisses across Dean’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and Dean grins. He pushes himself up so that he can seal their lips together, the kiss long and lingering. 

Dean is pretty positive they mean to make it to Cas’ bed, but instead they end up on the rug in the bedroom, Cas spread out above Dean. Dean rolls his hips up to met Cas, head thrown back and mouth open, absolutely shameless. Cas keeps murmuring little things that Dean can’t quite catch, and he goes down on his elbows, hands in Dean’s hair and mouth hot against Dean’s neck. Dean just grips Cas tighter, meeting every thrust like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. 

“We really should get up there at some point,” Dean murmurs after, throwing a lazy hand in the direction of the bed. They’re pressed together on the rug still, Cas curled around him almost protectively, a hand over his tattoo. 

“Probably,” Cas agrees, but neither of them make any move to get up. 

Dean turns his head so that he can press a kiss into Cas’ shoulder, humming slightly. He’s warm all over, skin almost tingling. The past week has loosened his shoulders and the lines of his mouth, he knows, and he loves the feeling. He’s been able to just _be_ with Cas, something that he didn’t even think about hoping for, and he’s damn well going to bask in it while he can. 

“I missed you.” It’s said so quietly that Dean thinks he’s imagined it for a moment. But when he looks up to meet Cas’ eyes he’s staring back at Dean, looking almost surprised that he’s said it. Then, louder, convinced: “I missed you. I tried not to, for a long time, and then just ignored it, but I missed you the whole time.”

“I know the feeling,” Dean says and fits his hand over Cas’ where it’s lying on his chest. 

“When we both leave in a week it needs to be different,” Cas says. “Not a repeat of last time.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. It should scare him, agreeing to this, but it doesn’t. If anything, it does the opposite. “I missed you too.”

Cas smiles, a bright grin that takes Dean’s breath away, and then rolls up onto his elbow so that he can kiss Dean.


	7. Petrichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All posted! I foresee life getting busy again this week, so I thought I'd finish posting everything while I had the time. :)

_slightly shorter than four months later_

-

Charlie calls him when he’s mired in traffic on Atlantic Ave. 

“Please don’t be calling with an emergency,” Dean says. “My fragile psyche can’t take that shit right now.”

“ _Let me guess, you’re stuck in traffic,_ ” Charlie sighs. 

“Baby isn’t built for this, it’s hard on both of us,” Dean says. He’s pretty sure Charlie is rolling her eyes. 

“ _Weirdo. But no, not an emergency. I’m calling because Bela deffo just posted a picture on facebook of her and Anna Milton on a sailboat somewhere in the Mediterranean._ ” 

“Yeah, they’re friends,” Dean says. “They dated ages ago, but that’s it.”

“ _I knew it!_ ” Dean actually has to hold the phone away from his ear, wincing. “ _How could you not help a bro out and tell me Bela likes girls?_ ”

“Charlie. You don’t even particularly like Bela. You tolerate her.”

“ _Have you seen her boobs?_ ”

“... point.”

“ _They’re really not dating?_ ”

“Not that I know,” Dean says. “They broke up when they were like 20 or some shit.”

“ _Huh,_ ” Charlie says. “ _Because they’re_ awful _cosy in these photos._ ”

“How cosy?”

“ _Like nose to nose._ ”

“Shit.”

“ _Yup._ ” 

Charlie lets him go when one of the studio phones rings, but not before making him promise to do some investigating. 

Just walking into the airport makes his skin crawl, even though he objectively knows he’s not getting anywhere near a plane. He drops down in a seat in arrivals, fidgeting with his ring and looking up every time the door from baggage claim slides open. He watches as people get enveloped in hugs, talk to drivers holding name placards, walk by without even making eye contact. He’s been all of them. 

When he finally looks up to find a familiar face, it takes him a second to move. Jess is leading, weighed down by a duffle and a pelican case, and Sam is just a step behind her. When he sees Sam though, he’s up without even realizing it. 

Sam spots him and pushes past Jess, and they meet in the middle of the hall, people all around them, hands fisted in shirts and jackets, clinging tight. Sam is here, tangible and real, not just a voice on the other end of a phone connection, and Dean never wants to let him go. 

“God, you’re too tall for this,” Dean says, voice hoarse, and Sam just laughs and it’s the best thing Dean’s heard in ages. They pull apart just far enough to grin like lunatics at each other, and Sam hooks a thumb on the chain around Dean’s neck, curling his fingers around the pendant. 

“Or maybe you need to be taller,” Sam says, smile blinding. Dean reaches up, ruffling his hair, and bites his lip to hold back a laugh when Sam shakes his hair out like a dog. 

“I’m guessing you’re Dean.” When Dean looks to his left he finds Jess looking at him with an eyebrow raised. Dean knows her from photos, but seeing her like this, whole and real, is kind of strange when he’s spent so long seeing her through Sam’s camera lens. 

“Yeah. And you’re Jess,” he says, pulling away from Sam just far enough to shake her hand, although his other hand stays on Sam’s elbow. “God, you’re _way_ too good looking for Sammy.” 

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam says, eyeing him, although it’s lacking anything resembling heat. 

“Just telling it like it is,” Dean says. Jess laughs, and Dean decides he likes her. 

They load the trunk up with duffles and camera gear, and Jess seems to somehow just know that shotgun is always going to be Sam’s. He called it when he was 12 and Dean first drove him anywhere, and he’s never had to call it since, it’s just a cosmic rule of the universe that if Dean is driving, Sam’s riding shotgun. 

“I’m supposed to kidnap both of you, by the way,” Dean says. “Mom’s making dinner.”

“Wow, really?” Sam says. “Not ordering out, but actually cooking?”

“ _Actually_ cooking. We should vanish for months more often, might get more home cooked meals,” Dean says. 

“I don’t want to crash anything,” Jess says. 

“Not crashing, you were invited,” Dean says. “Or, you know, kinda. Mom sort of issued an ultimatum more than an invite.” 

“Well, then I suppose I’d better come,” Jess says. “Make a good impression and all that.”

“Dude, you’re gorgeous and you’re a photographer, you’ll be fine,” Dean says, and then, “wait. You _want_ to come to dinner, don’t you?”

“Um, Dean, you do know who your mother is, right? Of course I want to come.” When he catches Jess’ eye in the rearview mirror, she’s got her eyebrows raised. 

“I do forget who she is, sometimes,” Sam muses. “Hey, remember that time she brought us along when she shot that W spread at the basilica in Milan?” 

“Yeah, San Lorenzo with Stam and Coco,” Dean says, and smirks at Sam out of the corner of his eye when Jess makes a choking noise in the back seat. 

“I might have a little bit of a photography crush on your mom,” Jess says. Dean nearly dies laughing at the look on Sam’s face. 

\---

They get home late, just the two of them. Mary had tried to get them to stay, but Sam was on a tear about missing his bed, and so she’d settled for sending them (and Jess) home with about ten pounds of leftovers each. 

They’d at least driven Jess home, and Dean had grinned when Sam had torn out of the car to help with her bags and then kiss her on her front stoop, their hair shining under the streetlights. Somewhere in there baby bro had grown up and gotten himself a proper girlfriend. 

The apartment is a bit of a disaster, but Sam doesn’t comment, just drops his stuff and then flops down on the couch, feet sticking over the arm as he nuzzles into the cushions. 

“God, I missed this couch,” Sam says with a little sigh. “And our stupid kitchen and my bed and even that weird blue tile in the bathroom.”

“We’re going to have to rip that out one day,” Dean says. They’ve been saying that since they moved in, almost four years ago. The tile hasn’t budged. 

Dean sits down on Sam’s legs, laughing when Sam weakly flails an arm in his direction. 

“Get your own spot,” Sam says. Dean just grins, leaning back against the cushions and loving the way they’ve slipped right back into this, no matter how ridiculously emotional some of their phone conversations had gotten while Sam was gone. 

“Nope, this is now my spot,” Dean says. Sam just sighs and stops flailing. 

Dean does eventually get up, stretching and cracking his back before going to the low bookshelf under the windows and digging around in an old cigar box. Sam watches him with one eye open, and when Dean finally finds a grinder and holds it up Sam just nods. 

“You owe me stories,” Dean says, and Sam cracks a grin, pushing himself up off the couch. 

They end up in the loft on Dean’s bed, passing a joint back and forth while Sam spins tales. Some of them connect half-told adventures that Dean had heard about over the phone, some are totally new, things that Sam hadn’t had the time to tell. Dean just nods along, feeling mellow enough to sink right through the mattress while Sam gets progressively gigglier. 

He gets it together a little bit when he talks about the first time he kissed Jess, under strings of fairy lights at a bar on a little harbor somewhere on a Croatian island. 

“The water was so fucking clear, Dean,” Sam says. “Like, you know how you never think about boats actually floating, because the water is so janky? But they actually float, and you could see it.”

“Boats always actually float,” Dean points out. Sam just eyes him, like he’s totally missing the point. 

“Whatever, they were totally floating,” Sam says. “The point of this story is about Jess. And about how I followed your totally stupid advice and then we were kissing. It was amazing, flat out.” 

“Yeah, kissing’s, like, totes adorbs,” Dean says drawling the words out. Sam ends up torn between another giggle fit and trying to whack Dean in the face with a pillow. 

“You’re such an ass,” Sam says breathlessly, and Dean grins at him. “You don’t get to hear about how I kissed Jess.”

“I’m not sure I’ll survive,” Dean says. 

“It’ll be tough,” Sam says. He pauses for a second, and then, “Hey, hey, what happened that time in Como with Bela?”

“What?” Dean squints at Sam, wonders how fucking high he is. 

“You and Bela vanished up to Como for like a whole weekend and you wouldn’t tell me what happened so I just assumed you guys had weirdly kinky sex in some villa.” 

“No,” Dean says, snorting. “We were actually working.”

“Bummer,” Sam says. “Because weirdly kinky sex in the Lake District is pretty rad.” 

“Wait,” Dean says, eyes going wide. “Wait, Sam, _what_.” 

Dean has to tackle Sam to try to get the story out of him, but Sam is just laughing and laughing, and it’s Dean’s turn to try to pillow him to death. 

“Nope,” Sam says, movements sloppy and grin huge as Dean tries to shove him off the bed and fails magnificently. 

They end up with their foreheads pressed together, breathing hard and maybe a little bit too close but they’re both buzzing out of their skin and they’ve never been great at personal boundaries with each other. Dean’s having a really hard time not being close to Sam right now, because he’s _here_ and not in some far flung corner of the globe and he can’t stop touching him to make sure that he’s really here. 

Eventually Dean rolls back onto his side, staring at Sam’s profile in the dark, and Sam closes his eyes and grins. 

“I love her,” he tells the ceiling, still wearing that goofy grin. Dean can’t help his own small smile, and he reaches out to put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. 

“I’m glad,” Dean says quietly. “She’s pretty amazing.”

“ _Massively_ amazing,” Sam says. “Hey, Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“What about Cas?”

Dean licks his lips, closing his own eyes and thinking about the last time they’d seen each other, how Cas had produced a freaking bottle of absinthe and they’d gotten way drunker than they meant to, lying in bed and kissing for an hour straight like they had all the time in the world. 

“What about Cas specifically?” Dean asks. When he’d finally told Sam, about a month ago, he hadn’t been able to explain much because Sam was too busy reading him the riot act from somewhere in New Zealand. 

“You love him?” Sam asks, and he opens his eyes, turning to face Dean. Dean worries at his bottom lip, mulling the words over. 

“Don’t know,” Dean says finally. “Maybe. Maybe one day.”

“But you like him.”

“Yeah.”

Dean grins, and Sam reaches out to push at him, wearing a major league dorky smile. 

“Don’t know how you guys can be apart,” Sam says. 

“It’s ok,” Dean says. “We make it work.”

(Dean’s not going to tell Sam that it turns out that button-up Castiel Milton sends absolutely _filthy_ text messages.)

“You’re good at that,” Sam says. “Making shit work.”

He nods to himself and Dean grins, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. He remembers a star in a corner, and thinks about getting Sam to put them up in here. 

“I’m glad you’re back to boost my ego,” Dean says. 

“Wouldn’t miss that for the world,” Sam says. 

They lie in silence for a long enough stretch that Dean’s almost drifted off to sleep before Sam speaks again, voice low and rough and sounding somewhat put out.

“Oh shit,” Sam says. “Met Ball’s on Tuesday.”

“Don’t have a date?” Dean teases.

“Dude, I think we’re past the point where I still have to ask you,” Sam says. “No, I’m going to have to wear a tux I’ve worn before.”

“You live a sad little life, Sam Winchester.” 

Sam does successfully manage to whip him in the face with a pillow for that one, although they’re both laughing too hard for it to do much damage. 

\---

Dean really does appreciate models who will put up with him fiddling with and staring at the way the same skirt fits for what has to be going on an hour. He’s pretty sure Hael has the patience of a saint. 

“I just don’t like how it’s sitting on her hips,” Dean says. 

“What, you want to go lower or higher?” Charlie asks, tilting her head to one side and squinting at Hael. 

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, just staring for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I need to know how the top is going to fit before I decide.”

“The top that you just decided to totally redesign.”

“Yep, that one.”

Charlie sighs, but she does head out into the hall, presumably to find something that’s at least close to what Dean’s got in mind for the new top. They’ve got a month still, he’s not worried. 

“How do you feel about the skirt?” Dean asks Hael after staring at the skirt a bit more. He hefts himself up on to a work table, resting his elbows on his knees and raising his eyebrows at her. She takes a moment, taking a step forward and then back before making a half-twirl. 

“The pleating is really lovely,” she says finally. “And I don’t mind where the waist sits.”

“Well, it’s good someone doesn’t,” Dean says with a quick smile. “We’ll see.” 

His phone chirps, and he leans over the table with a sigh, reaching for it and turning it over to find he’s got a text. 

**Sam**  
 _cas is cuter than you told me_

Dean frowns at the text, sitting back up and stabbing at the keyboard. 

**Dean**  
 _youre not fb stalking him are you_

**Dean**  
 _because im pretty sure he doesnt have a fb_

**Sam**  
 _no hes sitting on our couch_

Dean stares at the phone for a second, blinking and making sure that he’s read the message correctly. Cas is evidently here. In New York. Not London, not Milan, but Tribeca. 

“Someone die?” Charlie asks as she comes back, holding a few half-finished tops. 

“No, but I think Sam has kidnapped Cas,” Dean says. He looks up to find Charlie looking totally bewildered. 

“What?”

“Cas is at our apartment. I’m worried that Sam put a hit out on him and now has him tied up and at gunpoint on the couch. That’s the only explanation i can think of.”

“Pretty sure that’s your dad’s job, not Sam’s.”

Dean looks back down at his phone, rubbing a hand across his jaw, stubble rough under his palm. 

“Right, so, I might need to go,” Dean says. 

“Oh thank god,” Charlie says, sagging a bit and looking skyward. When Dean glares at her she doesn’t look apologetic at all. “It’s a Saturday night and some of us have lives, Dean Machine.” 

Charlie does have a point, and this can probably wait until Monday. 

“Yeah, ok, fine,” Dean mutters. Charlie very happily dumps the tops on the work table next to him and then goes to help Hael out of her skirt. 

Dean’s out of the building and into the heavy evening air ten minutes later. There’s a storm coming, clouds looming over Jersey City when he looks down the block and across the river, and he can feel it against his skin and taste it at the back of his throat. 

He stares at his reflection in the subway window when he slips into a seat on a half-empty 1 train, scratching at his neck and straightening his beanie. He hasn’t shaved in like three days, he’d put yesterday’s clothes on this morning, and he’s pretty sure the jeans he’s wearing have gone past ‘artfully faded raw denim’ and into ‘that wash hasn’t been in since 2005’. 

“Awesome,” he mutters, slipping a bit further down in his seat. The college hipster next to him looks over, frowns at him, and then goes back to reading whatever pretentious book he’s got open in his lap. Dean rolls his eyes. If he never has to deal with another NYU student in his life it’ll still be too soon, even if they do make up half of the revolving door interns in the industry. 

The first drops of rain start to fall as he unlocks the front door. He stands in the atrium, watching the rain go from a drizzle to a downpour worryingly fast, and then checks the mailbox. He’s still sorting through various magazines and bills when he kicks open the door to their apartment. 

When he looks up he finds that most of the lights are off. Only the kitchen light is on, throwing a soft glow around the rest of the apartment, but otherwise the space is twilight-lit, everything greys and blues through the clouds and the storm. 

Sam and Cas are sitting on top of the low bookshelf under the windows, one of the windows open far enough so that Sam can smoke out it. The rain is pounding down outside, the sound drumming and echoing off the ceiling. Cas has a glass of something balanced on one knee and is smiling wryly at something that’s got Sam laughing. Dean grins at them without even thinking, inordinately pleased that evidently they’re getting on great already. 

Cas looks just as good as always, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dean hasn’t seen him in about a month, and he’s fast discovering that every time he sees Cas the first thing he wants to do is reach out for him, not even to kiss him or hug him, but just little touches. A hand on a shoulder or an elbow, just because he’s there. 

“You really need to sign up for paperless statements,” Dean says as he walks over, dropping Sam’s latest AmEx bill on his legs and then leaning against the bookshelf next to Cas. 

“Dammit, I did,” Sam says, frowning down at the bill. “I told them months ago.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, smiling up at Dean and snaking out a hand to rest his palm on the small of Dean’s back. It anchors Dean, and he leans into the touch, into the warmth of Cas’ body. 

“Hey yourself,” Dean says. He bends down to press a kiss into Cas’ hair, the unruly strands tickling his nose. “Sudden business trip?” 

“I was volunteered for the Gala at the last moment. Anna decided she was going and needed a date,” Cas says. 

“I told him we could double date,” Sam says, smirking. Dean rolls his eyes, reaching out to snag his cigarette. Sam narrows his eyes as Dean inhales, although Dean does hand it back. 

“I’m not sure the Met Ball is really a double date place,” Dean says. “Unless we’re planning on sneaking into an R-rated movie and then staying out past curfew afterwards.” 

Sam laughs, grinning out the window at the rain. The hazy light softens his features, rounding out the planes of his face. 

“Do you know what you’re wearing?” Sam asks Cas when he turns back. 

“Oh my god,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “You are so obsessed with what you’re wearing. It’s all clothes all the time with you.”

This is greeted with silence. 

“I don’t think he’s aware of the irony of that statement,” Cas says after a moment, dry as desert. 

“I think you’re right,” Sam says with a smirk. “Maybe it’s because he spends all day worrying about girl clothes.”

“Hey, ass,” Dean says. “What I do is legit, and we wouldn't be this successful if women weren’t supporting it.”

“Awww, he’s so cute when he’s all riled up,” Sam says, laughing, and Cas grins. Dean just sighs, looking up at the dark ceiling. 

“I hate how well the two of you are getting along,” Dean says. 

“You don’t actually mean that,” Cas says. 

He doesn’t. 

\---

Cas finds him leaning against a wall behind the temple of Dendur while the sounds of Kanye rocking out in the next room filter through the space. There are people sweeping around, gowns and tuxes and delicate champagne flutes. 

“I just had a lovely chat with Olivier Rousteing,” Cas says, leaning in close to talk into Dean’s ear. Dean’s eyes go wide and he wheels on Cas, jaw somewhat unhinged. 

“What? Where? Oh my god,” Dean says. 

“Have you really never met him?” Cas asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Um, no,” Dean says. “We’re not all Miltons.” 

Cas grins, leaning back in towards Dean and putting a hand on his back. 

“You’d like him,” Cas says. 

“Of fucking course I would,” Dean says. “He’s _gorgeous_ and could design perfect awesomeness with only duct tape and a paper bag.” 

“Should I be worried?” Cas’ grin is kind of filthy, and Dean has a hard time tearing his eyes away from Cas’ lips. 

“Yeah right,” Dean says. He leans in, catching Cas’ mouth in a kiss. Cas sighs against his lips, leaning in closer and sliding his hand down to wrap his arm around Dean’s waist. When they break apart Cas licks his lips, and Dean can’t help but stare. 

“He’s wearing studded boots,” Cas says, voice low. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Dean groans. “I’m so fucking done.” 

Cas laughs, and then darts in to press another kiss to the corner of Dean’s jaw. 

“Come with me,” Cas says. “I found some familiar faces.” 

Cas leads him by the hand through the throng, past the Egyptian exhibit and out into the great hall. There are bright fractal patterns of light projected on the domed ceiling, pulsing in time to the light show in one corner where Kanye is bouncing around in a top that’s shiny enough to reflect all of the riotous color. 

They pass through the crowd, heading up the wide main stairs and up to the balcony. People are leaning on the railing, watching the people down below as they move with the music. 

At the far end Sam, Anna, Bela, and Jo are sitting on a bench, the girls with their shoes off and Sam towering over them all, despite the fact that he’s sitting down. The music is loud enough that he can’t hear them at all, can just see their mouths moving. It looks like Jo and Bela are doing the most talking, unsurprisingly. 

He sits down next to Sam and Cas takes the last seat on the bench. He elbows Sam good naturedly, grinning at him as he leans back against the display cabinet behind them. 

“Enjoying the music?” Dean asks. 

“It’s… loud,” Sam says, looking slightly pained. “You do? This is so massively far outside your usual wheelhouse.”

“Everyone should like Kanye,” Dean says. “I bet you even Taylor Swift likes Kanye.”

Sam laughs and slings an arm around Dean’s shoulders. Dean settles into it, the weight of Sam’s arm and Cas’ thigh pressed against his comforting, and closes his eyes, listening to the throb of the bass.

“Enjoying yourself?” Cas asks after a while, leaning in close to be heard. Dean cracks an eye open, grinning at him and nodding. 

“Course,” Dean says. “Got everything I need right here.”

Cas smiles at him and reaches out to thread their fingers together.


End file.
